All The Wonder That Would Be
by Bedelia
Summary: The night before Bill and Fleur's wedding, Hermione receives a mysterious gift that allows her to change the future. She can't save everyone, and every action has consequences.
1. The Gift

**All the Wonder That Would Be**

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><p><em><strong>Disclaimer:<strong>__ I own nothing related to Harry Potter. This is an amateur, non-profit work.**  
>Warnings:<strong>__ Violence, character death (both canon and non-canon, but not Bill or Hermione).**  
>AN:**__ This is a birthday present for the lovely Callinectes. Her birthday isn't until next week, but I'm posting the first chapter of this early because she's awesome. And also because she broke her poor little foot. Surprise, m'dear! :D _

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><p><em><strong>For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see,<strong>_

_**Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.**_

— _**Tennyson**_

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><p><strong>Chapter One: The Gift<strong>

It wasn't the tapping that woke her, but the whispery tickle of feathers brushing against her arm.

Bewildered, Hermione stared at the raven that had perched itself on her pillow. It pecked the metal frame of the rollaway bed a few more times and stretched its wings, its beady eyes gleaming in the soft moonlight. At the raven's feet lay a tiny parcel.

The little box looked innocuous enough, wrapped in ordinary brown paper and twine, but when she held it in the palm of her hand, Hermione was reminded of the sensation of passing her fingers through the flame of a candle.

More than just warmth, she could feel _magic_ pulsing out of it — pure and raw and powerful.

Its mission complete, the raven leapt from the bed and soared through the open window, into the dark summer sky. For her part, Ginny didn't stir at the rustling flap of the bird's wings. She slept the way she lived: with wild abandon, her arms and legs spread wide like a starfish and her riot of red hair tumbling over her pillows in a way that made her look as though she was in motion even as she lay still. Being raised with six noisy brothers — well, five, plus Percy — had inured her to things that went bump in the night. Anything quieter than a foghorn wouldn't disturb her dreams.

Even so, Hermione tiptoed around the squeaky floorboard as she slipped on her dressing gown and crept into the hall.

The Burrow was still and warm, the thick summer air humming with the sounds of sleep from its many occupants and the occasional clank from the ghoul in the attic. As she entered the kitchen, her bare feet padding on the cool tile floor, Hermione lit a single candle. With its wavering, feeble light to guide her, she cast a few spells on the parcel to detect the presence of curses before taking a deep breath and cutting the twine.

Inside, she found a midnight blue, wooden box that smelled as spicy and rich as a potions storeroom, but looked like it might contain something as everyday and harmless as a ring or a necklace. Attached to it was a note — unsigned, but she would have recognised that spidery handwriting everywhere. For five years it had appeared in the margins of her Potions essays, spelling out snarky, barbed comments and accusing her of regurgitating the textbook. More than that, those spiky _d_'s and jagged _t_'s had frustrated her for the majority of her sixth year as she struggled to work out the identity of the Half-Blood Prince.

She should have seen it immediately back then, and perhaps she would have, if Harry hadn't guarded his Potions textbook as though it was precious. No matter. She now knew Snape's handwriting as well as she knew Harry's or Ron's.

The note was composed of just five words, none of which offered any sort of explanation.

_Miss Granger,_

_Use it wisely._

Hermione scoffed. He couldn't seriously believe that she would trust him — not after what he'd done.

The candle's flame flickered, highlighting the runes that were painted in silver on the lid of the curious box. One by one, she traced her fingers over them and recited their meanings in her mind.

_Fehu — luck, abundance, foresight._

_Ansuz — insight, true vision, a message._

_Tiwaz — courage, justice, victory._

Positive messages, it would seem, but everything had a darker side. Just because something was painted with pretty, reassuring symbols, it didn't mean that it didn't have some sinister purpose. Hermione knew she should wake Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, gather the Order and show them what she'd received. She shouldn't deal with this alone; considering its source, it could very well contain things that were beyond her ken.

She should proceed with caution, heeding Mad-Eye's warning of constant vigilance every step of the way.

Instead, propelled by some heady combination of foolish rebellion and a thirst for knowledge, her thumb flicked the brass latch that held the box closed.

As she lifted the lid, Hermione had a vision of herself as Eve, plucking the forbidden fruit. She could be Pandora, unleashing a torrent of pestilence and evil.

Something deep within the box glowed, sending orange shadows dancing across her face. She leaned closer, squinting at the dim vision. Numbers and ancient runes swirled across an image that was, she realised with a gasp, a perfect copy of herself, huddled over the box in the Burrow's kitchen.

She could practically hear her mind whirring with the effort to keep up as the numbers moved faster and faster. From what she was able to translate as they flew by, the figures dealt with probabilities and potentials.

Potentials? Potential what? _79.9%_ blinked by in vibrant orange and yellow tones. As Hermione tried to focus on it, to get a better read of the runes that surrounded it, the numbers zoomed towards her. A door seemed to open within the box, showing another copy of the kitchen. Only, in this one, Bill Weasley had entered, shirtless and raking a nervous hand through his long, unbound ginger hair.

_"Oh!" Hermione's vision-self said, shoving the box under the table, out of his line of sight. "Bill! You startled me."_

_He jumped at the sound of her voice, shooting her a grin as his gaze settled over her pyjama-clad form. "Hey, Hermione. Sorry about that. What are you doing sitting here in the dark?"_

Hermione jerked back, closing the box with a decisive click. Footsteps sounded from the next room, heralding the arrival of none other than the other subject of the strange vision.

"Oh!" she said, copying her vision-self and hiding the box beneath the long, timeworn table. She bit back her next, instinctive words; they were exactly as they had been in the scene that had played out in the box.

"Hey, Hermione," Bill replied. "Sorry about that. What are you doing sitting here in the dark?" Pausing, he gestured towards her singular candle. "Well, near-dark, anyway."

"Um," she stammered. "Couldn't sleep."

"Yeah." He shook his head, seeming dazed. "Me either."

Bill paced back and forth across the kitchen. Now and then, he paused to rub a hand over his face or to stretch his arms over his head. His tense posture and anxious, pent-up energy reminded Hermione of a Quidditch player before an important game.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. I'm fine, thanks."

"Cold feet?"

He chuckled. "Maybe a little. I love Fleur, but this is...a big step."

"It is."

"It's right, though," he said, a secret, affectionate smile creeping onto his face. "Pre-wedding jitters aside, I'm ready." Smiling, he straddled a chair next to Hermione and drummed his thumbs against the edge of the table. "What about you? Are you nervous?"

"About the wedding? Well, I _will_ have to walk in heels, which is always dangerous—" she laughed as Bill snorted and rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm nervous about my mission with Harry and Ron. Petrified would be a better word, actually." She sighed. "It's right, though. Pre-save-the-world-mission jitters aside, I'm ready."

With a comforting half-grin, he rested a large, calloused hand on her shoulder. "We're going to win this," he said.

Snape's gift warmed her fingertips, resonating with promise.

Hermione smiled.

Yes. Yes, they were going to win.

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><p><em><strong>AN:**__ According to my outline, this fic is going to be around eight chapters long. I'm going to do something with this story that I've been trying with a few of my other fics: I'm going to send out a tiny sneak peek of the next chapter in my review replies. Thanks for reading! :)_


	2. Calculated Risks

**Chapter Two: Calculated Risks**

"Hermione!" George shouted, pounding his fist against the bathroom door. "Hurry up in there, would you?"

"Just a second!" she replied. "I'm almost done."

"There's a queue forming out here, Granger!" Fred said. "Why couldn't you have discovered masturbation when you were thirteen, like the rest of us?"

Hermione stifled a groan. Over the course of the past few hours, she had forgone sleep in favour of examining the box, unlocking its secrets. Whatever she thought about just before lifting the lid was what flashed in front of her. She'd already watched snippets of Bill and Fleur's wedding, complete with an attack from Death Eaters at the end. Whenever she focused on one of the percentages that whirred past in front of the vision, the box showed her what _could_ happen if certain actions were taken.

Thousands of possibilities crowded her brain, each clamouring for attention. In an effort to untangle the crossed threads of the potential futures, she scribbled out scenarios and their assorted probabilities on a thick sheaf of parchment.

Anything with less than a 30% chance of happening was discarded; she didn't have enough time to sift through everything. Instead, she devoted her charts and notes to the more likely outcomes.

This version of fortune telling was nothing like Trelawney's misty, far-fetched suggestions. It was all hard figures and logic, and Hermione knew it wouldn't always work. It was a game of chance. She was rolling the dice for all of them now.

Tears stung Hermione's tired eyes as she dipped her face into the box and watched the same flash of cruel green she'd been seeing over and over all morning. No matter what alternatives she dreamed up, that Avada Kedavra always came.

One thing she had discovered was that under no circumstances could she tell anyone about the existence of the box. Harry, in particular, couldn't know that she had access to visions of the future.

He couldn't know because he had to die.

According to what she'd seen, he would come back. His life was tethered to Voldemort's. But Harry couldn't know this before he marched off to his temporary death. He had to think that his brave sacrifice was permanent — that it was the end for him.

It could all be a trick — a plot engineered by Snape to fool Hermione into allowing Harry to willingly face certain death. After all, why would Snape want to assist them? He was a traitor.

Suddenly, the image of Harry lying cold and still on the forest floor shifted. Instead, she saw him — battle-weary and distraught, but _alive_ — standing in the Headmaster's office, watching Snape's cloudy memories take shape in the stone basin of the Pensieve.

Hermione gasped. _Dumbledore's man all along_. If this was true...

With a glance in the mirror, Hermione wiped the moisture from her cheeks and squared her shoulders. The snap of the box's lid as she slammed it was drowned out by a new wave of pounding on the bathroom door.

It was time to test Snape's gift. She would start with Charlie Weasley.

-oOo-

"Hermione," Charlie said, his voice slurred and his eyes half-lidded. "I...couldn't possibly. I've already had too much wine!"

"Oh, live a little, Charlie," she replied with feigned cheerfulness. "How often does your older brother get married? To Bill and Fleur!"

"To Bill and Fleur!" Charlie echoed, holding up his goblet of elf-made wine and clinking it against Hermione's (which, unbeknownst to him, contained Gillywater).

If Charlie was sober, then Hermione saw an 84% chance of him rushing headlong into battle with the Death Eaters and sustaining a permanent injury to his leg. But if he was tipsy, the box had shown a 71% chance of him belting out an off-key duet with Hagrid and then stumbling before he could reach the Death Eater who would have maimed him.

"Hagrid," Charlie said with a hiccup, throwing his thick arm around the half-giant's shoulders. "Y'know, you should visit the Reserve sometime. See Norberta, y'know? I reckon she'd remember you."

"Really?" Hagrid said, his beetle-black eyes gleaming. "Aw, yer just sayin' that."

"No, no. I'm not. She takes a liking to most bearded blokes. Hardly tries to singe them at all. She remembers you. Hey, d'you know that one about Odo the Hero?"

Sighing to herself, Hermione sneaked away from the pair of them. Her stomach rumbled with anxiety. For the fiftieth time that evening, she checked her beaded bag. Everything was ready.

Just as Hermione sat next to Harry and made up some excuse about being exhausted from so much dancing, the ghostly shape of a lynx Patronus bounded across the dance floor. She knew what its message was before it opened its mouth. Grabbing Harry's arm and drawing her wand, she began her frantic search for Ron.

"The Ministry has fallen," the Patronus said in Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice. "Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."

-oOo-

With trembling hands, Hermione closed and locked the heavy door. The ancient plumbing of 12 Grimmauld Place creaked and groaned, mingling with her rapid breaths as they bounced off of the dusty tiles.

Everyone was safe. Charlie hadn't been injured. It had _worked_.

Relief didn't seem like an adequate word for the sensation dancing through her limbs. Still, the box had miles to go before proving itself. And now Remus was downstairs with Ron and Harry, saying he wanted to abandon his wife and unborn child to accompany the trio on their mission.

Harry wasn't having it. He'd hurled accusations and hurtful truths at Remus, his intense anger almost seeming to make the air around him crackle. Even so, Hermione had to be sure that Remus's company wouldn't be better for their quest.

It was the mission that mattered, above all else.

Sitting on the edge of the chipped, claw-foot bathtub, Hermione pulled the box out of the pocket of her jeans — the one on which she'd cast an Undetectable Expansion Charm. With her thoughts focused on Remus's possible assistance, she opened the lid.

_"You should never have come with us!" Harry shouted, balling his hands into fists. He stood with Hermione and Ron in a clearing, facing off against Remus._

_"Yes, I think that's been made abundantly clear," Remus spat back, his ordinarily gentle voice turning bitter and harsh. "None of us should have, since you don't have a bloody clue what you're doing!" He jabbed his finger at the centre of his own chest, pointing to the golden locket that hung there. "All this time, and _this_ is all we have? Dumbledore was a fool to entrust this mission—" he sneered at the last word, "—to _you_, Harry."_

_"Remus," Hermione said, stepping forward. "I think you should take off the Horcrux."_

_"And I think you should mind your own business." Remus narrowed his eyes, turning towards her. "Snape and I have disagreed about a great many things throughout the years, but I'm beginning to think he was right about you all along._ Brightest witch of your age_...I must have been mad. You really _are _just an insufferable little know-it-all, aren't you?"_

_Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She'd always looked up to Remus, loved him as she would an uncle. Was this what he really thought of her? _

_"Remus, mate, you're out of line," Ron said. "Take off the Horcrux."_

_A feral growl erupted from Remus's throat. Panicked, Hermione looked up at the sky. The pinky-oranges and reds of dusk had faded, ushering in the star-speckled blue-black of a night far from the lights of a city. The pale circle of the full moon hung near a patch of clouds, bright and foreboding._

_"Oh, God," Hermione whispered. "Remus, please tell me you've taken your Wolfsbane Potion."_

_She got her answer in the next instant. Remus's bones shifted and cracked. Coarse hair sprung up all over his body as his nose lengthened into a wolfish snout. Snarling, he leapt at Hermione._

_"NO!" Harry yelled._

_Ron dived into Remus's path, shielding Hermione with his own body. Ribbons of red sliced through his freckled skin, carved out by Remus's claws and long, sharp teeth. Blood splattered over the face of Hermione's vision-self. Someone let out a heart-rending scream._

Gasping, Hermione yanked the box away from her face. Her pulse pounded in her ears. _98%_. If Remus came with them, there was only a 2% chance that the horrifying scene she'd witnessed wouldn't take place.

That decided it.

Stowing the box away in her pocket, Hermione made her way down the creaky stairs. Remus and Harry stood in some sort of tense, silent standoff. The former looked up and gave her a weak smile as she entered the room.

_You really _are _just an insufferable little know-it-all, aren't you?_

Shivering, Hermione pushed the vision out of her mind. That hadn't been him speaking. The Horcrux had done things to him, made him say horrible things that a kind soul like Remus wouldn't even think under ordinary circumstances.

"I'm sorry, Remus," she whispered. "I agree with Harry." Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed a quick kiss to his scarred cheek. "Go back to Tonks, please."

His shoulders slumped in defeat. Remus walked away without another word.

-oOo-

Time seemed to inch by once their Horcrux hunt really began. Hermione ached for a way to jump ahead, to skip the nervous, dragging tedium of life on the run. Sneaking into the Ministry to recover Slytherin's locket was nothing more than a blip on the radar to her; she knew the turning point she was really waiting for was Ron's departure.

She just wanted the whole thing over with. She wanted to know once and for all who she saved, who she failed.

When Ron started in on Harry about not knowing where the Horcruxes were, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from speaking up.

Hermione knew the location of every last one. She knew that she could have ended their search weeks ago, saved them endless days of camping and worrying and bickering. But she also knew that they couldn't find the Horcruxes just yet. They had to make it to their brief imprisonment at Malfoy Manor. Harry needed to disarm Draco, to become the master of the Elder Wand.

There was no other way.

She also knew that Ron was going to abandon them, but that didn't make the ache in her chest any less intense when he stormed out. She ran after him, crying his name again and again until her throat was sore.

Harry didn't speak to her when she crept back into the tent and crawled into her bunk. It was just as well; she wasn't in the mood for his awkward, faltering brand of comfort. At that moment, she only had eyes for the future.

Snuggling down inside her covers, she opened the box and, for the first time since receiving it, tried to divine something that had nothing to do with the war. Selfishly, she focused on what would happen if she married Ron.

_"I'm sick of it, Hermione!" Ron yelled, taking a swig of Firewhiskey from a crystal tumbler. _

_Hermione's dark hair was streaked with grey, and both she and Ron had more than their fair share of creases lining their faces. The two of them stood in an unfamiliar living room. Clusters of photographs featuring the two of them with a pair of children — a girl and a boy — dotted the walls. Quidditch magazines littered nearly every flat surface, along with a smattering of toys._

_Overall, it looked more like Ron's home than one he shared with Hermione. There was nothing that spoke of her personal touch, no stacks of books or piles of notes — nothing to indicate that she lived there at all._

_"You think I'm not?" she replied. "I'd love to be home more often, but it's just not possible right now. Once I finish this project—"_

_Shouting in frustration, Ron threw his glass against the far wall. Sparkling shards of crystal fell to the floor, followed by the slow trickle of Firewhiskey dripping down the wall, staining the paint._

_"It's _always_ one more project! Face it, love: you haven't been married to me for years. Your real husband is your job. It always comes first. I'm just an afterthought. This—" he sighed, "—this isn't working."_

_Hermione gasped. "What are you saying?"_

_"I'm saying we should end this joke of a marriage before we end up hating each other any more than we already do. I'd like us to be able to remain civil, for Rose and Hugo's sake. As it is, I don't think we'll be able to salvage any sort of friendship..."_

Stricken, Hermione threw the box to the opposite side of her bunk. He was going to leave her again.

Worse, she was going to drive him away.

Once she caught her breath, she picked the box up and began to run through alternative futures, scribbling page after page of notes. No matter what path she chose, something always went wrong. If she put her career on hold, she ended up resenting him. If she tried to content herself with expanding the reach of S.P.E.W, she never made enough money to feel comfortable starting a family, driving a wedge between them. Any other scenario was so unlikely, striving for it would be like trying to win the lottery.

Finally, Hermione tried the future she never wanted to see. Focusing on what might happen if she and Ron never moved beyond friendship, she opened the box one more time.

_A blissful smile stretched across Ron's face. He looked older, but not drastically so. Hermione guessed that he was in his late 20's or early 30's. His arms encircled the waist of a beautiful, golden-haired woman who looked at him as though he was her whole world. Something about her face struck a familiar chord with Hermione, but she couldn't quite place where she'd seen her before. The happy couple swayed back and forth on a golden dance floor that sat atop a cliff overlooking the sea._

_The woman was wearing a long, flowing white dress and a birdcage veil._

_"I still can't believe those two ended up together," a voice said from behind Hermione. "I never would have seen it coming."_

_Whirling around, she saw Bill sitting at an oval table, talking in low tones to her vision-self. Her left ring finger was bare. She was dressed in the same peacock blue dress that several other women wore, a bouquet of snapdragons and crystals resting next to her plate._

_A bridesmaid._

_"I did," she said, drumming her fingers against the shimmery tablecloth and letting out a heavy sigh. "Ron and Gabrielle are great for each other..."_

Closing her eyes, Hermione flung the box aside once more. Gabrielle Delacour? _Really_?

Ron had looked so happy. And judging by the fact that she was clearly a bridesmaid at his wedding, their friendship must have survived.

Sniffling, Hermione hugged her knees to her chest. It felt like Ron was walking out all over again.

"Hermione?" Harry said in a tentative voice.

"Yeah?"

"Err, d'you want...I mean...Is there anything I can..."

"Come here, Harry. Please."

She shoved the box into her pocket just in time — Harry was quick to pull back the curtain that separated her bed from the rest of the tent. With a muffled sob, she allowed her friend to fold her into his embrace and drew what comfort she could from his familiar warmth.

She didn't need the box to tell her that she would always miss the idea of those two little children with her brown eyes and Ron's red hair. But even though he'd walked out on her and Harry, she wanted to see Ron happy. If he could find that happiness with Gabrielle, then so be it.

She could walk away from him, too, if it was for the best.

-oOo-

Pacing back and forth across the tent, Hermione caught her lower lip between her teeth. Harry, she knew, was off being reunited with Ron and destroying Slytherin's locket, courtesy of some assistance from Snape's Patronus.

Snape. He was still in the forest. Not long after she broke Harry's wand (a necessary evil, so he'd have reason to take Draco's, but _oh_, he'd been _so_ upset), she'd looked into Snape's future, curious what fate might hold for him when the war ended. Would he escape? Be imprisoned in Azkaban? Would Harry vouch for him when he saw his Pensieve memories?

None of the above, it would seem. She'd seen him sprawled out on the grimy floor of the Shrieking Shack, his face contorted with pain as he looked into Harry's — _Lily's_ — green eyes and drew his last breaths.

He would be killed by Nagini, unless she could prevent it. During Hermione's fifth year, Mr. Weasley's wound from the snake had been mended with the aid of Muggle stitches. Perhaps, if Snape had some antivenin, and Hermione had a needle and thread...

Clambering into her bunk, Hermione took out the box and thought about sending Snape a message while she knew he was safely out of Voldemort's sight.

_Hermione's fingers shook, almost dropping the blood-slicked needle as she worked it in and out of Snape's sallow skin. The green, sticky remnants of the antivenin still clung to his thin lips. He made a choked, gurgling noise of pain._

_"Shh," she whispered. "Be still, Professor."_

_At last, she completed the final stitch. Snape grabbed her arm with surprising strength, his fingers clamping down hard enough to leave a bruise._

_"Memories," he rasped._

_"Yes." She nodded. "Harry has them. He'll look at them. I promise, he'll understand. Here, open up. I have some Blood Replenishing Potion for you."_

_With a gentleness that surprised herself, she brushed his matted hair away from his mouth and held a brown glass bottle up to his lips. He winced and sputtered a bit, but he swallowed every precious drop of the life-saving liquid._

_"You're going to be okay, Professor."_

_For some reason Hermione couldn't fathom, he laughed._

_"I won't," he said in between pained gasps. "Foolish girl. Get back to...the battle. Rescue someone else." He paused, scowling when she didn't immediately obey. "GO!"_

Frowning, Hermione drew her wand. There was only a 59% chance that her life-saving attempt would succeed, but she had to try. She forced the latest vision out of her mind and concentrated on drumming up the warmest, happiest feeling she could remember.

"Expecto Patronum." A wisp of smoke erupted from her wand, but fizzled out. She pursed her lips. "Expecto Patronum!"

On the second attempt, her silvery otter swam around the tent, casting its healing light in every corner. She sent it scurrying off to Snape's place in the forest with only one word as its message.

"_Antivenin_."

-oOo-

Hermione could hear Ron bellowing her name from his prison in the Malfoy's cellar. She tried to pretend that the desperate, muffled noise was the only thing in the world, focusing on the sound and doing her best to ignore the agony that coursed through her in boiling waves with each twitch of Bellatrix's wand.

She had to stay conscious. If she passed out, she would have no chance to warn Dobby. She had to tell him to duck as Ron apparated her away to Shell Cottage. If she didn't, he would be lost forever.

"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! _CRUCIO_!"

Hermione shrieked as a fresh torrent of pain burned through her veins. She shouted out lies in response to each of Bellatrix's questions, barely aware of what she was saying.

63%. Dobby could live. He had a 63% chance if she could just hold on a little longer.

The torture built to a crescendo, prompting bursts of violent colour behind Hermione's closed eyelids. Her ears rang with her own screams. And then, just as she heard Bellatrix offer what remained of her limp, beaten body to Greyback, everything faded to black.

-oOo-

He was gone.

After tracing her fingers over the simple inscription on the brave little elf's tombstone, Hermione made her way over to the edge of the cliff and sat down. She watched the sun sink into the sea, barely noticing the crunch of boots against gravel that heralded the arrival of someone coming to join her.

"Hey," Bill said, sprawling out on the bare rock next to Hermione and rubbing a slow, soothing circle on her back. "You okay?"

She offered him a shaky nod. "I'm fine."

He didn't look as though he believed her feeble lie, but he said nothing. Only the roar of the sea interrupted the thick silence that fell over them. Snape's gift felt heavy in her pocket, weighed down like her heart with the harsh, biting reality of the death she knew she could have prevented if only she'd tried harder, been cleverer, worked faster, risked more.

"Fleur has some Bimbleberry tea brewing for you in the kitchen," he said softly. "It's supposed to help you recover after you've been..." his voice trailed off, as though he didn't want to let the word_ tortured _pass through his lips. He cleared his throat. "Do you want me to bring it out to you?"

"Um...I suppose. Yes, please."

"All right." He patted her shoulder. "Back in a minute, then."

"Thank you, Bill."

Hermione closed her eyes and drew in a deep, sea-scented breath. There was no time to sit and mourn Dobby. She still had so much further to go before the end, so many people who depended on her, whether they knew it or not.

Grief would have to wait.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Happy belated birthday to Callinectes! And thanks again to all of you for reading. :) The lines "What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!" and "The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming" are from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Once again, I'll be sending out a sneak peek of the next chapter to signed reviewers (but because of ffnet's new review reply system, I can't do so if you've disabled PMs. Sorry to anyone who missed out on the previous sneak peek because of that)._


	3. Half a Chance

**Chapter Three: Half a Chance**

Hugging her knees to her chest, Hermione stared at the forest's worth of parchment that she'd spread out across Bill and Fleur's bathroom floor. There was so much to decide — so many potential complications. She wasn't at all happy about the dragon nonsense that would be necessary for her, Ron and Harry to exit Gringotts, but at least it was fairly straightforward. Beyond their escape, the final battle of the war waited for her, suffocating and destructive and unavoidable. When she closed her eyes, her lungs seemed to fill with smoke and the acrid stench of Dark Curses.

Already, her hands felt stained with blood.

With a shuddering breath, she cracked open the box and prepared to get to work. It would do no good wallowing. She had to do what she could to minimise the damage. She already knew what would become of Harry, Ron, and Snape, but there were so many others. As she lowered her face to the now familiar void, she turned her thoughts to how the Weasley family would fare in the upcoming fight.

_Percy embraced Ron, tears making messy, winding tracks through the dirt and blood that coated both of their faces. Ron clung to his older brother, as though all was forgiven between them — as though there had never been any quarrel in the first place. Off to the side, Hermione's vision-self held a sobbing Ginny in her trembling arms._

_Frantic with concern for her surrogate family, Hermione counted the heads of red hair. Ron, Percy, Ginny, Bill, Charlie..._

Oh, God.

_Harry shuffled to the side, allowing her to see the spot where Mrs. Weasley lay crumpled on the floor next to Fred's lifeless body. Her mournful wails pierced through Hermione's heart, leaving behind the raw, jagged outline of a mother's grief._

_Mr. Weasley and George knelt nearby, the latter barely recognisable through the haze of shock and sadness that had chased away his ever-present grin. Hermione was too numb from the realisation that Fred Weasley's days were numbered to feel anything more than the tiniest swell of relief that the rest of his family would, in all likelihood, make it through the upcoming battle._

_She found herself hoping for the glassy, unseeing look in Fred's eyes to vanish — for him to bound to his feet and proclaim that it was all a particularly cruel, inappropriate prank. She held her breath, fighting against her natural logic and reason as she prayed for him to move, to laugh, to live._

_He couldn't die. He _couldn't_. How could someone who had always been so full of life ever succumb to death? _

Bringing herself back to the present, Hermione drew in a deep lungful of air and swallowed against the bile that threatened to rise in her throat. The world seemed to tilt, as though it, too, could not believe what she had seen in the box. One word streamed through her head over and over, building up to a sorrow-laced scream that echoed through her mind.

_No_.

If Molly was the heart of the Weasleys, the one at the centre who kept them going with her warmth and strength, then the twins were the soul, the spirit of laughter that made almost anything bearable.

This time, Hermione could not fail. Watching the familiar spark of mischievous amusement fade from George's eyes would be unendurable — especially when she could have prevented it.

She had to save Fred.

As the moon passed through the sky outside Shell Cottage, Hermione went over possibility after possibility with the box. Her quill moved with record speed, her tiny handwriting pouring onto the parchment as she sought out a rescue strategy.

The best plan was obvious straight away, though she longed for something that showed more promise than its 59% chance of success. She would be there when death came for Fred, and if she could blast him away from the crumbling bricks at just the right moment, he might live. It put Percy in slightly more danger, but the risk was negligible. Because he would be placed in different situations as he and Fred continued to battle side-by-side, Percy would have a 70% chance of surviving the battle instead of 82%.

She knew that in spite of his tumultuous past with his younger brother and his ongoing fight with his family, Percy would want her to do it. He would give up his 12% to give Fred a chance at life.

He'd been sorted into Gryffindor for a reason.

The box felt gritty under Hermione's fingertips, coated with the thin layer of sand that seemed to find its way onto everything in this place. Shifting on the cold sea glass tiles so her back was against the whitewashed door, she turned her attention to the other casualties of the coming fight and lowered her face into the future once more.

_Bodies lay in rows in the Great Hall, surrounded by clusters of weeping, battle-weary survivors. Hermione couldn't begin to count them all; the familiar faces of classmates and friends blurred together with the handful of fallen strangers. In one corner of the room, Madam Pomfrey bustled around on a raised platform, her face red and streaked with sweat. Her clear voice rang out above the din of grief as she shouted orders like a drill sergeant at those who assisted her while she tended to the wounded._

_Hermione's stomach sank as her gaze settled on the still, silent bodies of Tonks and Remus. Both of them, gone forever, leaving their new baby without any hope of ever knowing his parents. A few rows behind the Lupins, Colin Creevey lay tiny and motionless, his face frozen in an expression of childlike peace._

Hermione let the box clatter to the floor. So many people — how could she choose? Every single one of them had loved ones they'd be leaving behind.

With guilt simmering in her belly, she let nepotism guide her thoughts. It was selfish and unfair, but she knew no other way to decide.

Saving Remus's life, she discovered with the aid of the box, would be relatively uncomplicated. A few well-chosen words whispered to him before the battle would plant the seeds that would raise his chances to 64%.

Rescuing little Colin Creevey would require the use of an Unforgivable Curse on Hermione's part, but she couldn't let him fight. He was so young.

They were _all_ so young, really.

Things got more complicated when it came to Tonks. Bellatrix was so determined, so focused in her insane rage to prune her family tree. Tonks's best chance left her with only a 50% chance of surviving.

Worse, even attempting it reduced Fleur's odds of making it through the final battle to 50%. Before, it had been 77%. A curse meant for Tonks would likely miss if Hermione went through with her tentative plan, rebounding off of a wall and possibly hitting Fleur as it scattered.

Hermione swallowed. No matter how many charts and pro vs. con lists she dashed onto the parchment, she came no closer to reaching a decision. Night shifted into misty dawn, rosy light spilling in through the leaded glass window and casting a pink glow over Hermione's desperate, increasingly messy handwriting. Sighing, she gathered up all of her notes and hid them away inside her expandable pocket with the box.

When she opened the bathroom door, the smell of baking bread drew her to the kitchen. There, she found Fleur, humming a Celestina Warbeck song, of all things, as she flitted around the kitchen and directed eggs to crack themselves into a sizzling pan with a wave of her wand. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy knot, a few rebellious strands hanging around her beautiful face.

"Oh!" Fleur said, wiping her hands on the apron she'd thrown on over her fuzzy purple dressing gown. "Good morning, 'Ermione."

"Good morning," Hermione replied, her voice hoarse from disuse.

Fleur frowned. "You look so tired. Ze bags under your eyes...'ave you not slept?"

Soft hands, lemon-scented from dishwater, whispered over Hermione's forehead and cheek, as though Fleur believed that exhaustion would manifest itself in a fever.

"I slept a little," Hermione lied.

Fleur made a little hum of disbelief, but said nothing in response beyond a few indecipherable murmurs as she manoeuvred Hermione into one of the kitchen chairs. Fleur's touch was soothing, infused with the universal, gentle body language of mothers even though she was childless and barely older than Hermione herself.

"Are you 'ungry?" Fleur asked. "Zere are eggs, and ze bread is almost ready. Or maybe zere is some cereal left, eef Ron deed not get to eet."

Standing on her tiptoes, Fleur peered into a cupboard and wrinkled her nose as she searched for the cereal in question.

Hermione stuck her hand into her pocket, running her thumbnail along the carved runes of Snape's gift. Now, in the harsh light of the choices she had to make, it seemed more like a burden.

She wished he wouldn't have sent it.

-oOo-

Hermione crept up behind Colin, taking advantage of the distraction provided by a shrieking Pansy Parkinson to make her move.

"Imperio," she whispered, breathing a sigh of relief when Colin's eyes went blank and obedient.

"You will go with the other students to Hogsmeade," she said. "You will go home, stay safe. You will not, under any circumstances, come back to the school to fight in this battle. You will forget that it was me who ordered you to do this."

Colin gave no indication that he understood her commands, but he followed after the Slytherins as they began to file out of the Great Hall. A pair of throats cleared behind Hermione. Whirling around, she was faced with two identical smirks.

"What was _that_?" George asked.

"Hermione Granger, breaking the rules?" Fred replied, feigning a scandalised gasp.

"One of the biggest rules there is, in fact."

Beaming, the twins said together, "We're so proud!"

"Shh!" Hermione hissed. "I had to. He was determined to fight. He's...he's just a kid. He would have come back and got himself killed."

George nodded. "I reckon he would have."

"Sometimes," Fred said, slinging an arm around her shoulders, "you need to misbehave. It's necessary to keep innocent little children from trying to take photos on a battlefield."

"And," George added, placing his arm over his twin's and sandwiching her between the two of them, "a little rebellion now and then is good for the soul."

The sight of Remus preparing to go off with Mr. Weasley and Kingsley to take groups of fighters off to the grounds made a chill race up Hermione's spine.

"I have to go!" she shouted over her shoulder at the twins.

Her feet took her across the Great Hall faster than she'd realised she was capable of moving. When she reached her destination, she almost crashed into Remus.

"Hermione?" he said, steadying her by settling his large, scarred hands over her shoulders. "What are you doing? Harry is looking for you and Ron."

"I know," she whispered. "Remus, listen. You have to look out for Dolohov."

"Dolohov? Why?"

"I overheard some things when we were held at Malfoy Manor. He has plans to sneak off and abduct Tonks, to try to use her M-Metamorphmagus power for You-Know-Whose side." Her voice quivered as the black lie rolled off of her tongue, but she hoped it came off as fear for Tonks's wellbeing. Staring into Remus's kind eyes, she added, "If he finds her, he won't hesitate to kill Mrs. Tonks and...and your son."

Remus gave a single, hard nod, a fierce, protective expression ghosting over his features. Hermione knew that he would be more ruthless now, that he would unleash the dark power he usually fought so hard to keep under control. Before he could run off, she grabbed him and pulled him into a brief, tight hug — just in case.

"Be careful," she whispered.

"You too."

And then, he was gone. Hermione ducked out of the Great Hall before Harry could see her. She had to catch up with Ron. By now, he'd probably already retrieved the basilisk fangs...

-oOo-

"We should tell them to get out," Ron said, gesturing in the general direction of the house-elf filled kitchen. "We don't want any more Dobbies, do we? We can't order them to die for us —"

Hermione stared at him in complete shock. After all this time, he finally _got_ it. _Oh_, how she wanted to drop her armload of basilisk fangs, fly at him, and crash her lips against his. The longing swept over her in a desperate ache, resonating through her body and making her heart race.

Instead, because she'd seen the future that awaited them if they ventured into a romantic relationship, she settled for hugging him close and whispering her words of gratitude in his ear.

With some urging from Harry, the trio of friends stepped out of the Room of Requirement and into the shaking, war-torn corridor. As Grawp lumbered past, Hermione's attention was drawn to Ginny and Tonks firing hexes and jinxes out of a broken window, doing what they could to aid the fighters on Hogwarts' lawn.

Tonks's body was still full and soft from her recent pregnancy. Her slightly rounder cheeks were dimpled with the worried frown that was etched onto her face. Hermione barely heard Tonks's brief, frantic conversation with Aberforth. The cherubic face of a baby she'd never met floated through her head, crying for his mother.

_11%_, she thought. _ If I do nothing, she only has an 11% chance_.

"Tonks!" Hermione shouted, rushing forward before she fully realised what she was doing. In a lower tone, she added, "Disguise yourself as Mundungus. He's not here, and...Bellatrix _really_ wants to kill you. It might save your life if she can't figure out who you are."

With a rustle of transfigured clothing and a clasp of Hermione's hand, Tonks morphed her appearance into a convincing imitation of Mundungus Fletcher. Straggly, ginger hair replaced her signature bubblegum pink, her stomach grew into a paunch, and stubble sprung up on her face. She winked one bloodshot eye at Hermione before spinning around and racing towards the crashing, rumbling sounds of the battle.

_Please, Fleur,_ Hermione thought. _Please be okay._

-oOo-

"You actually _are_ joking, Perce," Fred said, grinning with pride at his older brother. "I don't think—"

Hermione lunged forward, flailing her wand hand and sending Fred careening away from the wall. No sooner had her lips snapped shut at the close of the spell than she heard the explosion that blasted away the side of the castle, felt the earth seem to shatter as she flew through the air.

Through the dust and smoke that was left behind, muffled screams fell on her ears. A fresh wound sliced across her shoulder, burning under Harry's touch as he helped her to her feet and grabbed her hand.

She squinted, struggling to see through the wreckage. And then, there they were: Percy and Fred, both alive and wide-eyed.

"Hermione," Fred said, shaking his head as if to clear it. "What the hell was _that _for?"

Hermione couldn't speak. She dashed towards him, flinging her arms around his neck. A strangled sob burst from her lips. With hesitant, unsteady hands, he patted her back.

"Hey," he murmured. "It's okay. Nothing was bruised but my ego...and maybe my arse from where I landed on it."

"I saw the spell coming," she said. "I th-thought the wall was going to hit you."

"Pfft." Holding her at arm's-length, he shot her a teasing grin. "It'd take more than a few bricks to do in Fred Weasley."

-oOo-

Snape's blood was already drying on Hermione's hands by the time she returned to the Great Hall with Ron and Harry, the streaks that had trickled down her arms turning from deep crimson to rusty brown. On her fingertips, her own blood mingled with it — pinpricks from the needle she'd used to sew up his snakebite.

They found the Weasleys immediately. Their red hair was dulled by the dirt and soot that clung to all of them, but they still stood out in the crowd. They were with Remus, hovering over the lifeless bodies of two women.

As she drew nearer to the group, a scream rose in Hermione's throat. Tonks's body had reverted to its natural state when her life came to an end; her mousy brown hair was fanned out over the rough stone floor next to Fleur's silvery blonde. Bill and Remus knelt next to their wives, both paying little mind to a teary Mrs. Weasley as she rubbed soothing circles on their backs.

Groaning, Bill struggled to stand up. A long, angry gash marred his left leg, making him hobble along with a limp. He paced back and forth as well as he could, fisting his hands in his long hair and blinking his eyes against the tears that continually welled up and spilled over.

Against her better judgment, Hermione stepped forward and folded him into a tentative embrace.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Bill's responding hug was crushing; he clung to her as though she was the only thing anchoring him to the ground — as though he thought that if he squeezed her hard enough she might be able to provide him with some much-needed solace.

"Not your fault," he said, his rough stubble prickling her cheek.

_Oh_, she thought, _but it is_.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ The lines "We should tell them to get out. We don't want any more Dobbies, do we? We can't order them to die for us" and "You actually are joking, Perce" are from DH. _

_I keep getting questions about whether this will be a Bill/Hermione romance: of course it will! I wouldn't have filed it under that category, otherwise. Obviously it'll be a bit, err, complicated, given the events of this chapter, but they'll get there eventually. _

_Thanks for reading! Once again, I'll be sending out sneak peeks of the next chapter with my review replies. :)_


	4. Let Go

**Chapter Four: Let Go**

The click of Hermione's shoes against polished linoleum echoed through the corridor. To her ears, it sounded like gunfire against the quiet backdrop of concerned whispers and rumbling snores. The dusty, sickly-sweet scent of old flowers hung in the air, mingling with the burn of antiseptic and the stale sweat of illness.

Frowning, she paused in front of the private room that was her destination. She harboured no illusions that its occupant would be glad to see her, but she hoped — perhaps foolishly — that he would at least be civil.

After all, she _had_ saved his life.

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione rapped her knuckles against the pale wood of his door.

"Enter," a familiar baritone voice called.

Snape lay propped up on a mound of pillows, wearing standard issue blue-striped St. Mungo's pyjamas in place of his usual billowing black robes. A thick white bandage covered half of his neck, spotted with a few crimson flecks of blood that had seeped through. He looked so small and helpless — nothing like the imposing man who had stalked back and forth at the front of the Potions classroom and brought some of the more timid students to tears with just a glare.

"Hello, sir," Hermione said.

He gave her a curt nod. "Miss Granger. I was wondering when I'd see you." Tilting his head to one side, he stared at the closed door behind her. "You haven't brought Potter along, I take it?"

"No. Harry is...still recovering."

She shuddered, remembering with stomach-churning clarity the way she'd thought she miscalculated when she saw her dear friend cradled in Hagrid's arms. The scream that had erupted from her lips seemed to come from some broken place, deep inside her. If he hadn't stirred, hadn't shown himself to be alive and defeated Voldemort as he was destined to, Hermione knew she never would have been able to forgive herself.

"But he's alive?" Snape asked. "He survived?"

"Yes." She allowed a relieved half-smile to quirk at her lips. "I thought it best to have this conversation without him present. He'll be along to see you as soon as he can find a way to dodge the reporters."

"What joy is mine."

Hermione couldn't help it. At the sound of his unimpressed drawl, a gurgle of laughter bubbled out of her mouth, as uncontrollable as a nine-year-old's magic. He raised a single, bushy black eyebrow, successfully quelling her mirth. The silence that fell over them wasn't companionable by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn't exactly awkward, either. It stretched out like a cat in the sun, waiting for one of them to speak.

"Miss Granger?" Snape said, at last.

"Yes, Professor?"

He snorted out a derisory laugh. "I'm no longer anyone's professor, thank Merlin." Pausing, he drummed his thumbs against his blanket covered knees. "Of all people, why on earth did you choose to save _me_?"

"You really have to ask?" Smiling, Hermione took a few steps closer to his bedside. "After everything you did...you're a hero, sir."

Snape scoffed, his familiar sneer finding its way onto his face. "I beg of you to allow someone else to compose my epitaph, child. Lies are worse when they're carved into stone."

She shrugged. "If you say so, sir." After a weighty pause, she added, "May I ask you the same question?"

"Pardon?"

"Why did you choose me? Why did you send me the box?"

Pressing his fingers together in the shape of a steeple, he let out a pensive hum as he seemed to mull over his answer.

"I chose you because you are a Gryffindor and an insufferable know-it-all — ordinarily character flaws, but desirable in this situation," he said. "And when I used the box myself, prior to sending it to you, it showed me that out of all of my miserable options, you had the best chance of making a difference and ensuring Potter's safety — even above myself."

Hermione shifted her weight from foot to foot. As if it had a will of its own, her hand drifted to her pocket, feeling the edge of the familiar midnight blue box.

"Did you bring it with you?" Snape asked.

Nodding, she pulled it out and held it out to him on a flattened palm. His Adam's apple bobbed under the bandage. With guarded, cautious movements, he picked up the box with just his fingertips and rested it on his lap.

"You have an infuriatingly inquisitive nature, Miss Granger," he said, his voice lowering to a hoarse whisper. "I'm amazed you've lasted this long without asking me. Could it be that you are learning some restraint, at long last? Pity it couldn't have happened sooner. I could have done with a bit less frantic arm waving and bothersome questions these past few years."

"I'm sorry? Without asking you what, sir?"

He tapped his index finger against the rune _Ansuz_. "How I created it."

"Oh." Drawing her lower lip between her teeth, she traced her thumb along the top of the box. Though she loathed the heavy responsibilities it had heaped upon her, Hermione's touch was loving, reverent. If Snape took his gift back, she was certain that she would miss it. Somehow, it had become a part of her, burrowed its way into her soul.

"I did wonder," she said. "I tried to find information in the books I took along with us, but there wasn't much time for research that wasn't related to our mission."

Sighing, he leaned forward. His lank black hair fell down on either side of his face, forming a dark curtain that hid his expression.

"It was Advanced Arithmancy, for the most part," he murmured. "I threw in some Ancient Runes to add power, but it wasn't enough. I needed more. Deeper magic — the sort that is banned at Hogwarts and only whispered about even in the darkest places of our world. The blackest of magics, Miss Granger."

Hermione's heart seemed to sink into her stomach. Reeling and off-balance, she stumbled back a few steps. She wasn't sure she wanted Snape to continue with his explanation.

"It must have changed you, carrying this around. Did you not notice your personality shifting? You've always been ambitious, but perhaps lies started to come easier than they used to." He seemed to delight in her discomfort, smiling and showing his crooked yellow teeth. "In my will, I have named Hogwarts as my primary heir. When I die, the school will receive everything I own, save a small metal box that can only be opened by your unique magical signature. That, of course, will go to you. Inside, there is a letter instructing you to destroy this." He tapped the box in his lap.

"Can you guess, Miss Granger, how you might achieve such a task?"

Hermione swallowed against the dry, painful lump in her throat. "Basilisk fang," she said. "Or...or the Sword of Gryffindor. Fiendfyre would accomplish the task as well, but as I've never cast the spell, I wouldn't trust my ability to control it."

"Ah," Snape said with a wry chuckle. "So you _are_ capable of thinking beyond what is necessary for rote memorisation. I would not have thought it."

"Who was it?" she whispered. "Who did you kill to make..."

"Did Potter show you my memories?"

"He did, yes."

"Then you saw Dumbledore tell me that only I could know if it would damage my soul to kill him." He gave a sad shake of his head. "You've been carrying around the evidence that it did."

"Oh."

"Yes. _Oh_. Am I correct in assuming that you researched Horcruxes prior to the events of the past year?" When this was met with a nod from Hermione, he added, "Then you are aware of the method by which a Horcrux's creator may destroy it?"

"Remorse," she whispered. "Genuine, heartfelt remorse. But the process of knitting your soul back together...the pain of it could destroy you."

"Do you see now why I called you a foolish girl for saving _me_?"

"Professor—"

"Stand back, Miss Granger. The literature on this is sparse, at best. I'm not entirely sure what will happen."

Hermione had no sooner pressed her back against the mint green wall of the hospital room than the box began to vibrate and emit thick, blue smoke. Snape narrowed his eyes in concentration. The only thing betraying the guilt that simmered underneath his stony exterior was an occasional tremor in his chin, but Hermione thought she could almost feel the remorse pouring off of him.

And then, with a burst of red flame and a boom that shook the hospital, the future-telling box exploded. Something misty and dark and powerful burst from the remains and crashed into Snape's chest. He drew in a few weak, shuddering breaths, clutching at the black mark that seeped through his pyjamas at the impact site and spread outward.

"Professor!" Hermione said, rushing back to his side. "Someone! Help!"

It was no use. Snape's eyes went vacant and unseeing in the next breath, his heart pounding out one last, feeble beat.

Hermione watched, feeling somewhere between waking and sleeping as a team of healers fought in vain to resuscitate her former teacher. When Snape was pronounced dead, she gathered up the splintered remains of the box and brushed her fingers against his already cold hand.

"It wasn't foolish," she whispered. "I'm glad I did it, Professor. At least you were able to die whole."

-oOo-

Strange as it was, Hermione felt like a piece of her went missing with the destruction of the box. Wanted or not, she'd held it close for so long. It was different from Voldemort's Horcruxes: still dark and horrible, but Snape had known love. That, Hermione supposed, made all the difference.

The empty feeling lessened over time, gradually healing over as she moved in a daze through the parade of funerals that followed the end of the war. Fleur and Tonks were buried on the same sunny, unseasonably hot day in the tiny, vine-covered cemetery in Ottery St. Catchpole. Hermione had no time to change out of her funeral uniform of a sensible navy dress between Tonks's morning service and Fleur's afternoon one; she was so busy running around the Burrow, helping Mrs. Weasley with the flowers, the food — any chore to keep her mind occupied.

Finding herself next to the tombstone that bore Fleur's name and the dates that marked her too-short life sneaked up on her. One moment she was baking treacle tarts and fussing over peonies, and the next, she was face-to-face with the bitter reality of the choice she'd made.

Bill sat flanked by both of his parents, his hand drooping and unresponsive in his mother's. He gave no indication that he was paying attention to a word that was said until it was his turn to speak.

His limp was less pronounced than it had been immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts, but it was still there, and would likely always be. Hermione averted her eyes, not wanting to see his proud struggle as he hobbled up to the podium.

"The first time I was introduced to Fleur," Bill said, his voice steady, clear, and strong, "she pretended that she didn't speak a word of English. She claimed it was because she was tired of all of the human men at Gringotts — and a fair amount of the goblins, too — trying to chat her up, but I liked to believe that she just fell so in love with me right away that she actually forgot how to speak."

Hermione chuckled along with the rest of the people who had come to pay their respects to the late Fleur Weasley. She remembered catching a glimpse of Fleur eyeing Bill appreciatively during the Triwizard Tournament, so she wondered if Bill's version of the tale wasn't closer to the truth.

"Everyone noticed Fleur's beauty right away," Bill continued. "It was always on display for the world to see. She could have dressed from head to toe in burlap, covering up her face, and I think she still would have looked lovely. But precious few people got to see her inner beauty — her kind, loyal heart and her steadfast devotion. She was difficult to get to know — stubborn and opinionated. I loved her beyond all reason, as did everyone who managed to work their way beneath her prickly, guarded exterior to find out who she truly was. Our time together was far too short, but I will always be thankful for every last second of it."

-oOo-

Closing her eyes, Hermione let the pale yellow rose slip from her fingers and land on the mound of dirt over Fleur's final resting place.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Words can never be enough, I know. I just wish..." sighing, she shook her head. "Goodbye, Fleur."

Heavy boots shuffled through the damp grass behind her. Turning her head to the side, she gave Remus a weak smile over her shoulder. He made an effort to return the gesture, but his attempt looked more like a grimace.

"We've been to far too many of these things recently," he said, shifting his fussing son in his arms.

"We have." Hermione held her hands out toward Teddy. "May I hold him?"

"Of course."

Stepping closer, Remus passed his son into Hermione's waiting arms. Snuggling the squirming, soft baby, she rocked her body back and forth and made a gentle shushing sound. He was still so impossibly tiny. As he stared up at her with unfocused newborn eyes, his hair shifted from sparse ginger fuzz to a big, brown, frizzy mess.

Hermione smiled.

"What are your plans now that it's finally over?" Remus asked. "What do you want to do with your life?"

She sighed. "Honestly, I don't know, and that scares me a little. _More_ than a little. I want to sit my NEWTs, but beyond that...I'm not sure."

Nodding, Remus plucked a sprig of lilac from a nearby tree and rested it next to her rose. "There's something...Dora—" he stumbled over his late wife's name, "—and I always talked about doing if the war ended in our favour and we were able to drum up enough money. With the...the life insurance settlement, I should be able to swing it. I think it's something you'd be interested in, actually. The cause is as dear to your heart as it is to mine."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Hermione, would you like a job?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Thanks for reading! And a huge thank you to Callinectes, who is now the beta for this story even though it's her birthday fic! She's awesome. :D As with previous chapters, I'll be sending out a sneak peek of the next chapter with my review replies._


	5. A Fresh Start

**Chapter Five: A Fresh Start**

"How does this work?" Hermione whispered to herself, tapping her wand against the lid of the dented pewter box. "Oh!"

Just as Snape had promised, her personal magical signature triggered the lock. The box he'd left her in his will clicked open, revealing a scribbled note that said, simply, "The parcel from July is a Horcrux. You must destroy it."

Flicking her wand back and forth, she sent threads of vivid green magic weaving through the air. The Undetectable Expansion Charm settled over the box, making its insides expand with a muted groan.

Stack by towering stack, she tucked her charts and notes into their new hiding place. With Snape's gift — his _Horcrux_ — destroyed, she had no use for the reams of parchment that she'd filled with her minuscule handwriting, but somehow, she couldn't bring herself to get rid of them.

When the last of the papers was safely packed away, Hermione closed the box and placed it on the top shelf of her bookcase, behind her old textbooks.

As she turned off the light and crawled beneath her thin, summery duvet, she wondered if she would ever share the story of Snape's gift with anyone, or if the secret would die with her.

-oOo-

Like the other times she'd visited Shell Cottage in recent days, the first thing Hermione saw upon apparating was Bill, sitting on the edge of the cliff where he'd comforted her after Dobby's death. Most days he stared straight ahead, watching the rhythmic pulse of the tide and not acknowledging her presence. On this visit, he turned and gave her a slight nod.

"Hi, Bill," she said.

"Hi," he replied. Frowning, he seemed to teeter on the edge of speech. "How's your NEWT revision coming along?"

She smiled. "It's going well, thank you. Ron told you about that, did he?"

Bill snorted. "He seldom talks about anything that _isn't_ you. Well, you, Quidditch, or Auror training."

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Hermione gave a nervous shake of her head. There was an Important Talk looming in her future with Ron; she didn't need an all-seeing box to know it. He expected things to change between them, and she was going to be forced to tell him that they wouldn't.

"He's in his room, by the way," Bill said, leaning back and propping himself up on his elbows. "Don't let me keep you."

In the days since Fleur's death, Ron had moved in with Bill, saying that he was keeping his big brother company and trying to raise Bill's spirits. Hermione suspected that his motives weren't entirely altruistic. Being out from underneath his mother's watchful eye granted him the freedom to live as an adult, to make his own choices.

"All right," Hermione said. "See you later, Bill."

"Bye."

Since it had become the home to a bachelor and a widower, Shell Cottage had lost some of its homey warmth. An ever-increasing tower of Muggle pizza boxes rested on the coffee table. Several plates with the remnants of tomato sauce and melty cheese still clinging to them were stacked in the sink. Where a puffy quilt had once rested over the back of the sofa, now there was a discarded Chudley Cannons jersey, no doubt courtesy of Ron.

Mrs. Weasley came by, from time to time, but from what Ginny had said, it seemed that Bill made it clear he wanted only his mother's company during her visits; he didn't want her to play housemaid. The cottage wasn't filthy by any means, just a bit cluttered and uncared for. The previously gleaming wooden surfaces were now dull and dusty, as though Fleur's home missed her just as much as its occupants did.

"Ron?" Hermione said, knocking on his door.

He was there in an instant, greeting her with a wide smile and an enthusiastic hug.

"Hey!" he said. "I was wondering when you'd show up. Come in."

Before she could protest, he grabbed her arm and steered her into his bedroom. He sat on the bed, waiting for her to do the same, but she chose the more neutral area of the braided rug next to his wardrobe.

"So, how are your parents getting on?" he asked. "It's been, what, a week since Fred and George found them and brought them back?"

Hermione chuckled. Fred and George hadn't told her that they were retrieving her parents from Australia for her. They'd simply shown up at her house one day with a very confused, very drunk "Wendell and Monica Wilkins" in tow. Fred insisted it was his way of repaying her for knocking him on his arse and saving his life.

Given the way her mother vomited on the living room carpet from the combined effects of an international portkey and Firewhiskey, Hermione wasn't sure she wanted Fred to try to thank her ever again.

"Yeah, it has. And they're good, I think. Still a bit disoriented, but the healers say that's to be expected. They should be able to come home shortly after I sit my NEWTs." Pausing, she took a deep breath. "After I get them situated and we spend a bit of quality time together, I'm going to move to Wales."

"Really? Blimey, how come?"

"I'm going to work for Remus. He's setting up a charity — The Tonks Lupin Foundation for the Rights of Magical Creatures. Mrs. Tonks is letting us use her holiday cottage near Hay-on-Wye for our base of operations."

"The T.L.F.R.M.C, huh?" Ron said, scratching his chin. "Well, it's no spew."

Laughing, he dodged her attempt to swat him with a pillow. He stretched out on the bed, letting his head hang over the side so he could look at her upside-down.

"Are you going to be keep on with your quest to free all house-elves?" he asked.

She wrinkled her nose. "Not as such, no. At least, not at first. We're going to start by trying to eradicate house-elf abuse. That seems a bit more realistic, since the elves are so reluctant to accept any help. Maybe someday I'll be able to convince them to take payment for their services. Remus and I are going to try to help all sorts of magical creatures, really. Werewolves, dragons, centaurs, merpeople — the whole lot. And I'd like to set up something for the Veela in Fleur's name."

"Veela? What help do they need?"

"They're still hunted in some areas of the world. There are certain groups — mostly composed of jilted wives — that want them eradicated, since they ensnare men so easily. There are others who still hold to the old superstition that if you kill a Veela, you can take her power and use it as your own. It's completely false, of course. Not even Luna's dad would believe it." She frowned. "I hope."

"Huh. Didn't know that." Ron swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sending him tumbling onto the floor next to Hermione. "Well, I think it's brilliant. It's just the sort of thing I'd imagine you doing."

Without warning or preamble, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers in a brief, clumsy kiss. Gasping, Hermione pulled away and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Ron," she said softly. "I don't think that's a good idea."

He scowled, his ears flooding with an angry red blush. "Why? Hermione, we've been dancing around this for _years_. I've loved you since I was twelve, and I _know_ you feel the same way. The hand-holding and late night whispers in the tent, the dancing at Bill and Fleur's wedding...you can't tell me none of it meant anything to you."

"It did," she murmured, her heart simultaneously soaring and aching with each of his wonderful, horrible words. "It meant the world to me, Ron, but...but when you left us, you broke my heart."

"Haven't I apologised _enough_ for that?" Groaning, he got to his feet and paced over to the window. "I thought you said you forgave me."

"I do forgive you, but think about it. We would fight constantly. We'd grow to resent each other, and we'd forget why we even got together in the first place. We have a hard enough time getting along as friends. We'd be a disaster."

"So what?" he asked, his voice raising to a shout. "Maybe I want a bloody disaster, Hermione. Maybe I want bickering and passion and stubbornness. Yeah, it's likely that being with someone else would be a lot easier, but I don't _care_. I want _you_."

"Ron," she breathed, standing up and holding a hand out to him. Her voice caught in her chest, making her feel as though she was going to suffocate under the weight of her guilt and affection. "I'm sorry. I want us to remain friends, and I just don't see that happening if we enter into a romantic relationship. It would be a mistake."

Striding across the room, he grabbed her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. "Then for Merlin's sake, Hermione, _make a mistake_ for once in your life."

The word _yes_ tried to fight its way up her throat, but haunting visions of her multiple failed potential futures with Ron fought it back.

"Not this time," she said.

"Are you in love with Harry?" he asked, clenching his hands into tight fists.

"No!" she exclaimed. "God, no. There's no one else. I love you, Ron, but I can't do this. I'm sorry."

He would forgive her, eventually. She'd seen that much. Married or not, they were fated to be part of each other's lives. And someday, he'd find far more happiness with Gabrielle than he ever would have had with Hermione.

She only wished she knew what the future had in store for her.

-oOo-

_Three years post-war_

Hermione tilted her head back, allowing the sun to warm her face. If ever there was a town that seemed like it was built especially for her, it was Hay-on-Wye. With its mountains of bookshops (including some hidden, magical ones that she'd stumbled across when she took a wrong turn during her first month), it instantly felt like home. And now it was her favourite time of year: the literary festival.

She didn't even care about the throngs of people who got in her way and impeded her progress as she made the trek from her tiny mid-terraced house to the cramped office just outside of town that she shared with Remus. She couldn't get enough of the atmosphere; it was like food for the mind.

Just as she turned onto Bridge Street, a large, work roughened hand touched her shoulder.

"Hermione?" a familiar voice said.

Whirling around, she found herself looking up at a scarred, handsome face that she hadn't seen in months. The familiar surge of guilt hit her, dulled by the intervening years, but still very much present.

"Bill!" she said, throwing her arms around him. "It's been ages!"

He chuckled. "Well, you keep skipping Sunday lunches at the Burrow, so that's your own fault, really."

Cringing, she gave him a lopsided shrug. "I know. I feel horrible about it, but we've been _so_ busy recently getting everything sorted with the dragon reserve."

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Charlie told me about that. He was pretty excited that you and Remus were able to take it over when the Ministry decided to shut it down."

"We couldn't have done it without him. His fundraising skills are...kind of scary, really." She laughed, looping her arm through Bill's to keep them from getting separated in the crowd as she started heading towards the office at a casual stroll. "We had to do it, though. They were going to ship the Welsh Greens off to reserves all over the world, and they're so much better off in their native habitat. Anyway, how have you been? What brings you to Hay?"

"I'm okay, thanks," he said. His smile was restrained, more solemn than it would have once been. He seemed older than his thirty years. "And I'm looking at property in the area, actually."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm selling Shell Cottage to Ron. I don't want to get rid of it, but I want to make a fresh start. That rules out England and Scotland, so I decided to try Wales. I was looking around, um, Cwmbach?" He said _Cwmbach_ like a question, his mouth struggling to form the proper sounds. "Someone mentioned the festival over here, so I thought I'd drop by, maybe come see you and Remus."

"Well," she said, motioning towards the green, rolling land across the bridge, "I was just on my way to work. Do you want to see the office?"

He did.

-oOo-

Andromeda's cottage was sheltered by a grove of trees not far across the bridge, set back from the main road. At night, with the windows open, it was possible to hear the splashing of the River Wye as it flowed past a few hundred metres away. In addition to being the base of operations for the charity, it doubled as a home to Remus and Teddy.

Smiling over her shoulder at Bill, Hermione fished her keys out of her pocket and unlocked the heavy, green lacquered door. The room she led him into was bright and airy, with honey coloured floorboards, pale yellow walls, and the odd toy littered here and there. Two desks faced each other in the centre, both sagging under a mound of paperwork. A brick fireplace dominated the corner, a miniature cauldron full of floo powder resting high on the mantlepiece, out of the reach of tiny hands. The wall space immediately surrounding it was dotted with scraps of parchment bearing dates for appointments, reminders to return certain floo-calls, and notes that bore such messages as, "Remus, Is it possible to ground Harry and Ron? I know they're adults, but they pumped Teddy full of sugar before dropping him off with me. And they bought him the noisiest toy they could find, which is now his favourite thing, of course. They must be stopped. Love, Hermione."

"Remus?" Hermione called, glancing at her watch when there was no response. "Ah, he must already be on his walk with Teddy."

Remus always liked to spend extra time with Teddy before the full moon. Hermione knew he felt guilty for sending him off to Andromeda's every month even though Teddy took the whole thing in stride. She thought it had less to do with the separation itself and more to do with the fact that Remus longed to be able to shrug off his curse and be normal for the sake of his son.

"Just let me put my bag in the bedroom," she said, gesturing at the rucksack slung over her shoulder, "and then I'll give you the grand tour."

Bill's eyebrows shot up. "Um, oh. Wow. I didn't realise you and Remus were—"

"Oh!" she said, coughing out a stunned laugh. "No, no. We're not. I just stay over on the night of the full moon to make sure there's always someone here to answer any floo-calls. Sometimes we get emergencies in the middle of the night. I usually stick around for a few days after, too, so Remus can get some extra rest and take his time recovering."

"Ah." Bill chuckled. "Well, that makes sense."

She nodded. "Anyway, make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."

Hermione trudged up the stairs, flinging her bag down onto the worn blue duvet in the master bedroom. She would have been far more comfortable on the lumpy, short sofa in Teddy's room than Remus was, but he wouldn't hear of it. He always insisted on giving up his own bed.

By the time she returned to Bill, he was perusing their memos and smiling to himself over one that, unless Hermione's memory failed her, was from Remus concerning the stinky cheese that she'd stored in his refrigerator.

"Well," she said, flinging her arms wide. "This is...pretty much it. Upstairs, there are just two bedrooms and a bathroom. We do all of our work in here, obviously. The messy desk is Remus's."

Tilting his head, Bill squinted at the pair of desks. "And, uh, which is the messy one, exactly?"

"That one," she said, laughing and pointing to Remus's work station. "Mine is clean, really. I have a system."

"Mhm."

"I do! It's mostly centred around being entirely too busy, but I swear, there's a method to the madness. And the kitchen is through here." She drifted through the stone archway that led into the cosy, sunny little room. Bill kept up with her rapid pace, the long stride of his good leg propelling him forward much faster than Hermione would have expected.

"Do you want some tea?" she asked, picking up the dented copper kettle and filling it beneath the tap before he had time to respond.

"Ooh, yes, please."

After placing the kettle over the glowing blue flame on the hob and popping a pair of teabags into two mugs, Hermione scurried over to a narrow door next to the refrigerator.

"Alohomora," she said, tapping her wand against the doorknob. Smiling at Bill, she added, "This used to be a pantry, but now—" stepping inside, she lit the heavy iron lamp that hung overhead, "—it's my potions workroom."

The space was small, the shelves that lined the walls crowded with hundreds of bottles of potions ingredients. Every surface shimmered with the purple shine of Anti-Fire Charms. A squat metal table sat in the centre, several simmering cauldrons competing for space on on its surface.

"Wow," Bill said, peeking through the faint blue smoke that billowed from one of the cauldrons. "Is this Wolfsbane Potion?"

"It is!" Hermione beamed at him. "Good eye. I've been making it for Remus and a few other werewolves for about two years now."

"I'm impressed. I've heard it's notoriously difficult to brew."

Blushing at the praise, she muttered something that she thought vaguely sounded like, "It's nothing." With the tour complete, she led him back into the kitchen and double-locked the door of the workroom. Bill sat down at the round, oaken table in the corner, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"So things are going well, then?" he asked.

"It's challenging and immensely frustrating from time to time, but overall, I can't complain. I love it. Getting paid to do work I'm passionate about is just fabulous, really." Perching on the seat next to him, she carded her fingers through her messy, windswept hair. "What about you? How are things at Gringotts these days?"

The wince that appeared on his face at the mention of his employer vanished almost as soon as it arrived, but Hermione noticed it. He shifted in his chair, tapping a long finger against the polished tabletop in a quick, agitated rhythm.

"It's okay," he said, forcing a smile. "I miss Egypt. I loved the excitement and danger of being a curse breaker." He cast a rueful glance at his injured leg. "I can't very well go back to it now, though. And being stuck behind a desk in London isn't _so_ bad."

The whisper of a plan began to swirl through Hermione's mind, fuelled by guilt. Three years ago, her choices had taken so much from Bill. Didn't she owe it to him to bring a bit of joy into his life? Not to mention that she and Remus were drowning under their new responsibilities.

"Hmm," she hummed. "I have an idea. There would be a bit of desk work involved, but there would also be a few days spent outside at the dragon reserve each week. Walking around, mostly, making sure that everything is running smoothly. The dragonologists will be the ones to interact directly with the dragons, except for maybe checking up on the hatchlings when they're shorthanded. Remus and I have been taking turns up until now. We've been meaning to sort it out, but finding someone we trust enough to oversee something of that magnitude...and Charlie won't leave Romania for love nor money..."

"Err," Bill said, drawing his eyebrows together in confusion. "I think you lost me. What are you trying to say?"

She smiled. "Bill, would you like a job?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Thanks for reading! And a big thank you to my beta, Callinectes. Once again, I'll be sending out a sneak peek of the next chapter with my review replies. :)_


	6. Thursdays

**Chapter Six: Thursdays**

"Do I look too shabby?" Remus murmured, running nervous hands over his dress robes.

"Of course not," Hermione replied. "You look very handsome." Standing on her tiptoes, she straightened his collar and dusted a few imaginary bits of lint from his shoulders. "Then again, compared to my date, you may as well be wearing a burlap sack."

"Ah, yes." He chuckled, his scarred cheek twitching with the beginnings of a fond grin. "But who can live up to his standards?"

"Almost no one," she said with a laugh, crossing the office to make a few last-minute notes on the Veela file that was fanned out across her work station.

A third desk had joined hers and Remus's in the centre of the room. Unlike the other two, its scrubbed oak surface could be seen without the effort of shifting bushels of paperwork out of the way. Bill kept his work neatly tucked away inside a red filing cabinet. The only items cluttering up his desk were two framed photos — one of himself and Fleur on their wedding day, one of his family in Egypt — and a Holyhead Harpies mug full of quills.

Hermione had it on good authority that his desk at the dragon reserve was another story entirely, but she seldom had reason to visit the tiny stone hut that served as his makeshift office there. The lush mountains and smoky skies of the reserve were Bill's domain.

"Always working," a familiar voice said next to her ear.

Hermione gave a startled jump. Even with his cane, Bill always managed to sneak up on her.

"We really have to get you a bell," she said. "Tie it around your neck on a pretty red ribbon so you make some noise when you walk around."

"_That_ wouldn't be any fun at all."

In the months since he joined their little organisation, Bill had traded in the pallor of an office worker for a suntanned glow. He worked outside as often as he could, soaking up what little fair weather Wales had to offer. His dark ginger hair was now streaked with sun-bleached strands, and his smile seemed brighter than it had been before — as if it, too, had soaked up the summer sun. Tilting her head to one side, Hermione stared at him. There was something different about his appearance — something she couldn't quite place.

Bill's mouth formed a soft 'o' of surprise. Leaning over Hermione's shoulder, he traced his index finger along the top of the file in her hands.

"You didn't tell me you were naming the Veela project in honour of Fleur," he murmured.

Hermione attempted a shaky version of a smile. "It was supposed to be a surprise," she said, hoping the guilt didn't shine through her voice. "We've been planning it for years, and now we've finally managed to secure enough funding to build a couple of shelters in the countries where Veela are hunted the most. If all goes well at this event, we'll be able to start bringing some of the shelter residents to the UK as asylum seekers."

"Wow," he said, stepping back and giving her a tentative half-grin. "She would have loved this."

"I hope so," she whispered. With a quiet sigh and a glance at her watch, she added, "If we don't go soon, we're going to be late. Now, where is my—"

"Ready!" a high-pitched voice cut her off, accompanied by a flurry of tiny footsteps.

Teddy burst into the room, his toddler-sized dress robes already wrinkled in spite of being freshly pressed by Remus less than an hour before. His slicked back mop of hair and miniature bow tie were both the same butter yellow colour as Hermione's dress. Laughing, she swept the energetic little boy into her arms and balanced him on her hip.

"You look very handsome, Teddy," she said, kissing his forehead. "I'm not sure how I feel about my date looking so much better than I do."

Teddy gave her a shy smile in response, winding his fingers through one of the curls that had escaped from the elegant knot at the base of her neck.

"If Teddy is your date," Bill said, "I suppose that means I'm stuck escorting Remus."

With a deep, exaggerated bow that was only somewhat hindered by his cane, Bill offered his arm to Remus, who accepted it with a shake of his head and a long-suffering sigh.

"Very well," Remus said, chuckling. "But remember, Bill, I'm still your boss. No getting fresh."

Bill snorted out a laugh. "You should be so lucky, old man."

-oOo-

The ballroom's ceiling and walls were festooned with huge sashes of sheer, silvery fabric, giving it the appearance of an opulent tent. Floating candles and hundreds of whitish blue fairy lights hovered in the air over the heads of the dancers who whirled around the polished marble floor. On the wall opposite where Hermione sat at a table with a sleeping Teddy curled up on her lap, trestle tables draped with shimmery cloths were weighed down with dainty cakes, decadent treacle tarts, and bowls of never-melting ice cream.

Looking around at the festivities, Hermione couldn't seem to hush her inner calculator. It reminded her in excruciating detail how many more Galleons they could have had for the Veela at the end of the night if they'd scrimped on decorations and food. None of their other fundraisers had been like this. Remus and Hermione's first attempt at a charity ball was held in the Burrow's garden, with only their friends and families in attendance. She worried that they were out of their depth attempting something on such a grand scale — that they would barely cover their own expenses by the time it was over.

Then again, their other fundraisers hadn't had a gaggle of Fleur's relatives cosying up to the attendees, batting their blonde eyelashes, and asking how much they would like to donate. Hermione smirked as she caught a glimpse of little Gabrielle Delacour — now fourteen years old — smiling at Harry, Fred, and George as they reached into their pockets and forked over a few handfuls of Galleons for the silver basket she carried in her arms.

This could very well end up being their most successful event yet.

"You were right, y'know," a familiar voice said from behind her.

Looking up, she gave Ron a bemused frown as he slumped into a nearby chair.

"Right about what?"

"Us." He waved a freckled hand back and forth between them. "It's been three years, and we _still_ only really interact through Harry. Can you imagine the rows we would've had as a couple? It would've been like the Battle of Hogwarts all over again — only more violent, probably."

Hermione didn't have to use her imagination. She'd had a ringside seat for the shouting matches that could have been, courtesy of Snape's Horcrux.

In spite of the ghosts of bad memories that rattled around in her head, she smiled. "I've missed you, Ron," she said, nudging his shoulder with her own.

And she had. It was with a swell of relief that she realised she missed Ron Weasley, her _friend_. She was no longer distracted by thoughts of him closing the distance between their bodies and pressing his lips to hers. All of her fantasies starring Ron had melted away without her noticing, leaving only a bittersweet sort of fondness.

"Yeah, me too," he said. Tilting his chair back onto two legs, he reached his arms towards the ceiling in a lazy stretch. "Listen, Ginny got me tickets to a Cannons match next week. D'you wanna go? Just you and me. I won't even get _too_ offended if you bring a book."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "I'd love to, but won't your girlfriend mind?"

"Nah, Daphne's cool."

"Daphne Greengrass? I thought you were going out with Lisa Turpin."

"Oh, ugh, no. Had to nip that in the bud. She was way too possessive and needy."

Hermione couldn't hold in the affectionate laugh that burst from her lips. It felt incredibly odd to hear the same Ron who had once loathed every boy who so much as glanced in her direction complain about a girlfriend being too possessive.

"One of these days, Ron," she said, "you're going to meet a girl who makes you _want_ to stop being such a shameless womaniser."

"Pfft. Womaniser, schmomaniser. I've just been having a bit of fun, that's all. I'm still young, right? And I mean, come on, Hermione. I'm a bloody war hero! You expect me to _not_ take advantage of that?" Pausing, he stole a gulp of her elf-made wine. Given that he was Ron, this resulted in him emptying half the glass with one swallow.

"Anyway," he continued, shrugging off her attempts to reclaim her drink, "I don't know if I'll ever settle down."

She fought back a knowing grin. "You will."

"Hmph. Bet you twenty Galleons you're wrong."

He extended the hand that wasn't still holding her wine glass, raising his eyebrows to punctuate his challenge. Hermione knew she shouldn't, given her unfair advantage, but the smug look on his face egged her on. Pursing her lips to hide her smile, she accepted the handshake and nodded her head.

"I'll collect my winnings when I'm a bridesmaid at your wedding," she said.

"Bridesmaid? No way. If I get married — and that's a _big_ if — you're going to be co-best man with Harry." Standing up, he gave her a quick, one-armed hug. "I should go find Daphne. I'll see you next week for the Cannons match, yeah?"

She beamed at him. "Wouldn't miss it."

As Ron dashed away, Teddy began to stir. Kicking his chubby legs against Ron's vacated chair as he came to, he looked up at Hermione with droopy, tired eyes.

"Good morning," she said, chuckling. "Are you about ready to find your daddy and go to Granny's house?"

"Nuh—" a wide yawn cut his refusal in half, "—uh. I'm not sleepy."

"Oh, yes. I can see that."

"Hey, Teddy," Bill said as he approached them. "Do you mind if I borrow your date for a while? You can have mine in return; I think I heard him say something about letting you have a bowl of ice cream."

"Ooh!" Teddy squeaked, his drowsiness a distant memory as he slid down from Hermione's knees and took off at a run.

She laughed. "I think that means I'm all yours."

"Excellent." Propping his cane up against the table, Bill extended his hand and gave her a charming smile. "Shall we?" He jerked his head in the direction of the dance floor. "I may only have one good leg, but I reckon I'm still a better dancer than Teddy."

"Are you?" Taking his hand, she stood up. "I think you'll have to prove it."

Without the use of his cane, he was forced to lean on her a bit as they made their way across the ballroom. Once they began to sway together in slow circles, he seemed to make more of an effort to hold himself up. As Hermione watched the clenching of his jaw, she battled back the urge to give him a hug.

"You know," he murmured, "I've never thanked you."

"Thanked me? For what?"

"Well, this—" he waved their joined hands, gesturing at the ballroom, "—for a start. Setting up the Veela project in Fleur's name..."

Hermione ducked her head, avoiding his honest blue eyes. "It's the least I could do," she whispered.

"Mm, if you say so. But I've also neglected to really thank you for giving me this job. When I was chained to a desk in Gringotts, I was just existing, not living. I was a bit sceptical about going to work on the reserve at first, but it's been brilliant."

As elated as she was to see the sense of renewed purpose that his career change had brought him, she couldn't ignore the spiteful voice in the back of her head — the one that whispered ugly truths and never let her forget that if not for her choices, Bill would still have his wife.

"You don't need to thank me, Bill," she murmured.

"Mm, if you say so," he repeated, giving her a gentle squeeze with the hand that rested on her waist.

It wasn't until the music stopped and he clasped both of her hands in his that Hermione was able to pinpoint what she'd been struggling with earlier at the office — that mysterious something that was different about him.

For the first time in the three years since the war, Bill had removed his wedding ring.

-oOo-

_Eight years post-war_

"Are you sure you don't want to tag along?" Hermione asked, winding her long, badly knitted purple scarf around her neck.

Remus gave her a weary smile. "Not today, I'm afraid. I want to finish up with this werewolf proposal before Tuesday."

Hermione knew without having to check the calendar that this particular Tuesday coincided with the full moon. Working with Remus, she felt much like the tide — pulled and pushed by the moon's gravity. By now she was so in tune with its phases that she could rattle off the dates of the next twelve full moons off the top of her head.

"Need any help?" Bill asked.

"No, no." Remus waved him off. "I'll manage, thanks. You two go have fun."

Thursdays were Bill's day at the main office. He sat at his tidy desk, filed his reports, and occasionally offered extra assistance when Remus and Hermione were swamped with work. During their lunch hour on those days, Bill and Hermione (and, now and then, Remus) wandered around town, lingering in musty bookshops and browsing the Hay-on-Wye Thursday market. Sometimes they popped into a restaurant near the town clock that knew exactly how rare Bill liked his steaks, but most Thursdays ended with them getting too caught up in books and market stalls to remember to actually eat lunch.

After saying their goodbyes to Remus, the two of them rushed out into the chilly December air and hurried towards town. The sky swirled with white clouds, heavy with the possibility of snow.

"Did you hear that Fred and George hired Gabrielle to work at their shop?" Bill asked as they wove their way, arm in arm, through the mass of people in the Memorial Square.

"Did they? I would say that's nice of them, but I suspect they did it for their own benefit after seeing how successful our Veela fundraisers have been. She'll be an excellent saleswoman."

"You're probably right," he said with a chuckle that quickly faded into a frown. "Apparently Ron has been hanging around there a lot, trying to chat her up."

"Has he? Well, I suppose Gabrielle is nineteen now, isn't she?"

Grimacing, Bill nodded. "Twenty in February. But you know how Ron is with girls. If he messes her around, I may be forced to thwack him with my cane."

Hermione's laugh rang out above the murmur of the crowd. Resting her head on Bill's shoulder, she gave his side a teasing poke.

"I would almost like to see that," she said, pausing to look over the wares on offer in a market stall featuring various meats and cheeses. "I have a good feeling that Ron will treat her well. The boy has to grow up eventually, doesn't he? He's not Peter Pan."

Bill's lips quirked up at the corners. "I wouldn't be so sure about that." Bending down, he lowered his voice to a whisper, barely loud enough for Hermione to hear. "Muggle or magical today?"

"Hmm. The latter, I think. How about the one on Forest Road? We haven't been there in a while."

"Sounds good to me."

The wind was at their backs as they made the journey to Forest Road, blowing Hermione's frizzy curls into her face and obstructing her vision. After a few minutes of watching her struggle to hold back her curtain of hair, Bill laughed and brought her to a halt.

"Here," he said, unfastening the leather cord that was wrapped around his own ponytail. "I think you need this more than I do at the moment."

Hermione's skin prickled with goosebumps as Bill's fingers brushed against her neck. With gentle, careful movements, he tied her rebellious curls back from her face.

"There," he said. "Better?"

"Much, thank you."

They walked the rest of the way in silence, sharing an anticipatory smile when the sign for Morwenna's Magical Books came into view. To Muggles, it would appear to be a bland, ordinary mid-terraced house, but Hermione and Bill's magical eyes could see it rising above the other buildings, teetering like the Burrow. Behind its cheerful yellow door lay floor after floor of shelves teeming with secondhand magical texts. Many were only old school books, but here and there, rare gems could be found.

As was their habit, they rode the moving stone staircase straight to the thirteenth floor and began to work their way back down through the stacks. Hermione thumbed through battered copies of _Hogwarts, A History_ and _Prefects Who Gained Power_ before she stumbled across a thin, tattered volume bound in gold leather. Curved, flowing letters spelled out a title in Arabic — completely indecipherable to her, but she opened it anyway.

"Why, Hermione Granger," Bill murmured as he peeked over her shoulder, his breath tickling her ear. "I'm shocked. A book of erotic poetry?" He let out a low whistle. "Explicit stuff you have there."

"_What?_"

She could feel his responding chuckle rumbling through his chest just centimetres from her back, close enough to warm her skin through their clothing.

"I'm just taking the piss," he said. "It's water magic — meant to harness the power of the Nile."

"You can read this?"

"Mhm. I learnt Arabic when I lived in Egypt. Well, enough to get by, at least. Do you want to know what it says?"

Hermione nodded. Bill's unbound hair fell forward and brushed against her neck as he began to read aloud. In spite of her usual thirst for knowledge of any sort, she couldn't pay attention to his faltering words. The rich, deep timbre of his voice flooded her awareness, sounding like a soft hum to her suddenly muddled brain.

When he finished with the passage she'd been looking at and backed away, Hermione instantly missed his warmth and the sound of his voice. A fluttering, jumpy sort of joy took up residence in her stomach when he reached forward to tuck a loose strand of her hair back into the leather tie.

_Oh, no_, she thought. _Helping Bill out and being his friend is all well and good, but developing silly, romantic feelings for him is _not_ an option. It would be too complicated. There's a whole horrible, shameful history there that he isn't even aware of._

"Hermione?" he said, jolting her out of her thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"Ready to head down to the next floor?"

"Oh." She swallowed hard, her throat feeling suddenly dry. "Err, yes. I'll be right there."

As soon as his back was turned, she slipped the water magic book into her shopping basket.

Foolish as the prospect was, given her earlier reaction, she wanted to hear him read from it again.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Thanks for reading! And thank you to my lovely beta, Callinectes, as well. Once again, I'll be sending out a sneak peek of the next chapter with my review replies. :)_


	7. To Turn Pumpkins into Coaches

**Chapter Seven: To Turn Pumpkins into Coaches**

* * *

><p>"<em>Know you what it is to be a child? It is to be something very different from the man of today. It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief; it is to be so little that the elves can reach to whisper in your ear; it is to turn pumpkins into coaches, and mice into horses, lowness into loftiness, and nothing into everything, for each child has its fairy godmother in its own soul." — Francis Thompson<em>

* * *

><p><em>Nine years post-war<em>

Hermione's stomach lurched as the world around her turned into a twinkling blur. Her legs flew out, soaring parallel to the golden dance floor, as her partner spun her faster and faster.

"Desmond!" she shrieked, digging her fingernails into his shoulders in a desperate attempt to keep from flying out of his arms and careening over the side of the cliff. "Let me down!"

With a hearty, booming laugh, he slowed to a stop and allowed her feet to drift back to the earth. It was only the second time Hermione had met Charlie's Scottish friend. If they'd been better acquainted, she would have known not to accept his invitation to dance.

"Yer all right, lass," he said, clapping a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"That remains to be seen." Shaking her head as if to clear it, she let out a weak laugh. "Thanks for the dance...I think."

"Anytime," Desmond replied with a wink. "Just find me when yeh get yer bearin's back, yeah? We'll have another go."

"Uh huh," she said with a vague wave, having absolutely no intention to do anything of the sort.

"I'm gonna go find the groom's sister," he said with a cheeky grin, "see if she wants a twirl."

Somehow, Hermione doubted Desmond would have much luck with that quest, given that Ginny was heavily pregnant with her third child. Still reeling and off-balance, Hermione stumbled over to the oval table where she'd left her things. Once she was safely settled into a chair and no longer in danger of toppling onto her face, she smiled to herself and watched Ron sway back and forth with his new wife. Not far from them, a nine-year-old Teddy whirled around with one of Gabrielle's younger Veela cousins, looking as though he was trying to copy Desmond's method of "dancing."

Attached to Hermione's bouquet of snapdragons and crystals was a peacock blue velvet purse, perfectly colour coordinated to match her "best woman" dress. The purse jangled with the sounds of her winnings when she fiddled with its silky drawstring.

Twenty Galleons. Ron hadn't forgotten their bet; he'd paid up that morning when she went to Shell Cottage to check on him before the ceremony. She'd tried to refuse it, but he had been insistent.

Well, if she put it towards a savings fund for his future children, he'd never know that she hadn't spent it on herself.

"I still can't believe those two ended up together," Bill said, lowering himself into the seat next to her. "I never would have seen it coming."

"I did," she said, drumming her fingers against the tabletop and smiling a secret smile. "Ron and Gabrielle are great for each other. She keeps him grounded, I think."

"Mm," Bill hummed. "I'm just glad I didn't have to thwack him with my cane after all."

"Tsk. Such a pity. I would have so enjoyed seeing that."

"Well, give him time. He's only twenty-seven. He has many, many years left in which to earn a thwacking."

Hermione tried to conceal the tremor in her responding chuckle as Bill draped an arm over the back of her chair. She'd never read too much into his tendency to sit so close to her before; they were friends and he was an affectionate person, that was all. Now, it seemed some giddy schoolgirl buried deep inside her had sprung to life and made it her mission to catalogue and over-analyse every lingering hug, every touch of bared skin.

"How's your belly?" he asked, apropos of nothing.

"Err, it's fine, why?"

"Well, I worried that you might have been left feeling a bit nauseated after your antics with Desmond. I'd hate for this to go to waste." Grinning, he presented her with a thick slice of dark chocolate sponge cake topped with raspberry ganache and a hefty dollop of whipped cream.

"I know you hate fruitcake," he continued, nodding towards the half-demolished marzipan and flower covered creation that rested on a side table. "I couldn't let the best woman sit through the entire reception with no cake at all. You will, however, have to share with me."

Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, he withdrew two forks. Hermione had no sooner reached for one of the utensils than Bill dug into the cake and took a Ron-sized bite.

"William," she said, brandishing her fork at him. "I will duel you for this cake, if it comes down to it."

"Ooh. _Not_ the full name. I must be in trouble."

Hermione helped herself to some of the velvety cake and hummed with delight before she responded.

"You _will_ be in trouble if you hog my lovely cake, mister," she said.

Their forks glinted in the muted candlelight, clashing against each other as they battled for the remainder of the dessert. By the time they were finished, Hermione was laughing so hard that tears of mirth had welled up in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

"I'm glad you forced me to be your friend," Bill said, shoving the last few crumbs towards her.

"I did not force you!"

He chuckled. "You did, a little. I would have been content to sit in the office, quietly eating my packed lunch on Thursdays, but you were very persistent."

"You could have said no."

"I don't know if I could have. I find it difficult to refuse you much of anything — which is quite possibly why I've agreed to work late all next week." He gave her a lopsided, boyish grin. "But I am glad you elbowed your way into my life. Thursdays are my favourite day of the week now."

Hermione smiled, willing the blush that crept into her cheeks to fade away.

"Mine too," she whispered.

-oOo-

_Ten years post-war_

_Foom. Foom. Foom._

"William."

_Foom foom._

"Yes, Hermione?"

"You are thirty-eight years old."

_Foom foom. Foom-foom-foom._

"So I've been told."

_Foom_.

"Don't you think you should stop playing with that ridiculous thing and get back to work?"

Bill tapped a long finger against his chin, pretending to consider her suggestion.

"No," he said. "Not until I can lodge one of these in your hair."

"Oh, that's _it_. You asked for it."

Dodging the next volley of mini-marshmallows that Bill sent her way, she fished her own marshmallow gun — an early Christmas present from Fred and George — from her desk drawer and opened fire.

Tiny pink and white missiles flew through the air as the two of them ducked beneath their desks and shouted threats at one another. When Hermione made a run for the cupboard that held their coats and slush-dampened boots, Bill dropped his cane, lurched forward, and grabbed her around the waist.

"Bill!" she squeaked, wobbling back and forth and trying in vain to keep her balance.

After a few moments of flailing and laughing, they toppled to the floor in a pile of limbs. At the last second, Bill managed to flip them around so he took the brunt of the impact.

"Oof," he grunted as her hip landed in the middle of his stomach.

"That was cheating," she said, shaking her head. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." His voice was breathy, as if he'd just run a long distance. "I'm fine."

As Hermione wriggled in an attempt to get her legs in a position to stand up, Bill's hands grabbed her waist and something that sounded very much like a growl vibrated through his chest.

"What was _that_?" she whispered.

"Sorry," he said, looking abashed. "The wolfish traits are always a bit more prominent near the full moon."

"Oh. Are they really? I never noticed."

"Well, I don't exactly go out of my way to advertise it."

The sound of a throat clearing drew their attention to the doorway. Remus stood there with a wide-eyed Teddy, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. Gasping, Hermione rolled off of Bill and scrambled to her feet.

"Did you two have a nice walk?" Bill asked, bracing his hands on the armrests of his desk chair and pulling himself up.

"It was fine," Remus replied. "Though decidedly less eventful than _your_ morning, it would seem."

Before Hermione could stammer her way through an apology, the fireplace in the corner erupted in heatless green flames.

"Hermione!" Ron said as his smiling face appeared in the glowing embers. "Bill! Remus! Teddy!"

"Now that we've taken attendance," Bill said with a wry grin, "is something wrong?"

Ron beamed. "Nope, everything is brilliant. Come to St. Mungo's as soon as you can. It's a girl!"

-oOo-

"Fleur Ginevra Weasley," Ron said, casting a proud look at the pink bundle in his arms. "And you two are going to be godparents."

Hermione blinked. "Bill and me?"

"Yes," a very exhausted Gabrielle said. "Eet only seems right zat it would be Beell."

A whisper of a smile graced Bill's lips. "Thanks," he said, rubbing a hand over his stubbly, scarred cheek. "I'd be honoured."

"Me too," Hermione managed to say. "I just didn't expect this. I thought you'd choose Harry and Ginny."

"Well, if you hadn't refused to shag me, Gabi and I might not even be here right now," Ron said, earning himself an eye roll from everyone except his newborn daughter. "Harry and Ginny can be the next one's godparents. Then Neville and Luna, maybe. And then—"

"Just 'ow many cheeldren are you planning on 'aving, darling?" Gabrielle asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"If they're all like this one, about a million," he replied, bending to drop a kiss to her temple. "Though next time, I want to be knocked out for the birth. That was _terrifying_." Turning to Hermione, he added, "D'you wanna hold your goddaughter?"

"Of course," she said, still feeling thunderstruck.

Stepping forward, Ron placed the baby into Hermione's waiting arms. Little Fleur yawned, her gummy mouth stretching wide open, but she didn't fuss. Hermione traced a finger over Fleur's impossibly tiny hand, a watery smile tugging at her lips when five small fingers gripped her thumb. She'd spent a fair amount of time cradling babies since the war ended: Teddy, Harry and Ginny's brood, various little Weasleys, and countless children of former classmates. Even so, the innocent, absolute trust displayed by sleepy newborns never failed to take her by surprise and steal her heart.

"She's beautiful," Hermione whispered.

"That she is," Bill added, stroking his hand over the tuft of strawberry blonde fuzz on top of Fleur's head.

"We think so," Ron replied with a grin. Pausing, he stretched his arms over his head until his back made a loud pop. "Bloody hell, I'm knackered. I'm going to go see if I can't find a decent cup of tea. You lot want anything?"

"None for me, thanks," Hermione said.

"Nor me," Gabrielle said.

"I'll go with you and keep you from dozing off in the corridor, old man," Bill said.

The sound of Ron and Bill's bickering faded with their footsteps as they moved further and further from the maternity ward. Gabrielle let out a long sigh, her eyes staying closed for far too long to count as a blink.

"'Ermione?" she said. "I 'ope you weell not be offended eef I fall asleep. I 'ave 'ad somezing of a beeg day."

"Oh, no, of course not. You go ahead and take a nap. I'll keep an eye on Fleur. Take advantage of the silence while Ron is gone."

Gabrielle's mumbly giggle had barely left her mouth before it was followed by a quiet snore. Hermione paced over to the window, gazing out at the lightly falling snow that was blanketing Muggle London and making everything hushed and soft.

"You are going to lead a charmed life, little one," she whispered to her new goddaughter. "You may as well have been born with a fairy godmother instead of plain old me, because I think if you wanted me to make you a magical coach to rival Cinderella's, I'd probably sneak into Hagrid's garden and steal one of his giant pumpkins just to be sure you had the biggest, grandest coach possible. When your father drives you insane — and he _will_ — you can hide out at my house. We'll build a campfire in my garden and toast marshmallows and I'll tell you about all of the adventures Ron, Harry, and I used to have at Hogwarts — including the stuff you can use as blackmail against your dad."

Like her mother, Fleur quickly dropped off to sleep. The hand that had been clutching Hermione's thumb loosened its grip, and her little mouth fell open. Hermione sighed.

"I'm going to do this right. I promise I'll keep you safe, Fleur."

-oOo-

"I didn't know you bought this," Bill said, holding up the gold-bound water magic book that Hermione had purchased two years prior.

"Oh," she replied. "Yeah. I always meant to pester you to translate more of it for me. Tea?"

"No thanks." Flopping down on her sofa, he cracked open the timeworn cover. "Want me to translate some of it now?"

"Sure. If you don't mind."

"Not at all." Grinning, he patted the cushion next to him in invitation.

As soon as she sat down, he began reading in the same deep, low voice that he had used in the bookshop. The sound washed over Hermione, lulling her into a happy daze. She didn't realise he'd stopped reading until he spoke her name.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"Were you paying attention to any of that?"

"Err, a little?"

He laughed. "Mhm. Sure." Glancing down at her lips, he nodded as if he'd just reached a decision. "Listen, there's something I've been wanting to do for...well, for far longer than I should have, really. I haven't gone through with it because you're my friend, and you're also technically my boss, and my little brother used to be in love with you, but you know what? To hell with it. You only live once."

Before she had time to ask what he was talking about, he tossed the book onto the coffee table and kissed her full on the mouth.

It was rougher than she would have expected for a first kiss, his lips moving against hers without restraint and his callused hands tangling in her hair. He didn't hesitate to dart his tongue into her mouth when her lips parted in a stunned gasp. He made a low, rumbling noise in the back of his throat that made her heartbeat thud in her ears. Hermione couldn't help but respond, fisting her hands in the front of his shirt and pulling him closer — he could never be close enough, as far as she was concerned. It was months of longing and teasing and frustration, all distilled into a single kiss.

"Bill," she whispered as he broke away to draw in a ragged breath, not sure herself whether it was a half-hearted protest or a plea for more.

Resting his forehead against hers, he trailed his hands down to grab her hips. "You can't tell me that I'm alone in this. I know you too well to believe such a lie."

"You're not." Her head tilted back of its own volition as he latched his mouth onto her neck. "_Oh_...you're definitely not alone in this." Inwardly cursing her guilty conscience, she forced her mouth to form her next words. "But you...you need to wait just a moment."

"Why?" he murmured against her overheated skin.

"Please promise that you won't hate me."

Furrowing his brow, he pulled back and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Why would I hate you?"

"Oh, Bill," she whispered, closing her eyes. She couldn't bear to look at him when she made this confession. "Before we go any further, there's something you need to know. I can't keep it from you if we go down this path."

"_Please_ tell me this isn't the moment that you tell me you used to be a bloke."

"_Bill_. For heaven's sake. No, I've never been male. It's—" she gulped, "—it's about Fleur."

"What about her?" he asked, panic seeping into his tone. "She's okay, isn't she?"

Hermione shook her head. "I didn't mean your niece. She's fine.

"I'm talking about your wife."

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Desmond is the creation of Callinectes; she just lets me borrow him from time to time._


	8. Come What May

**Chapter Eight: Come What May**

"Please tell me this is your idea of a completely tasteless joke," Bill said in a low, dangerous voice.

"I wish I could," Hermione murmured. "I'm so sorry, Bill. It was the most difficult decision of my life. I never wanted Fleur to get hurt; I was just trying to save Tonks."

Slumping forward, he gripped the stack of charts and notes in his hands with white-knuckled desperation. She wanted to reach out, to layer comforting hugs and soothing words over him, but she didn't think he was in any state to accept solace — least of all from her.

"That time just after she died," he croaked, "during the battle...this is why, isn't it? I couldn't figure it out at the time. I barely knew you back then, really, but you hugged me and apologised over and over again. Oh, _Christ_." Clambering to his feet, he scooped up the dented pewter box that had held her notes and hurled it against the far wall of her living room. It crashed to the floor with a bang that made Hermione jump in her seat.

"This is what you meant, isn't it?" he shouted. "When you said naming the Veela project after Fleur was the least you could do, you were talking about making amends for _this_."

"Yes."

"It's why you hired me, why you befriended me...Merlin, Hermione, is it why you let me kiss you, too?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "And it's _not_ why I befriended you, either. I like you, Bill — for who you are, not for what I did to you."

"I wish I could say I feel the same way about you, love, but I'm not sure I even know you anymore."

"Yes, you do," she whispered, her voice turning quiet and choked with the tears she struggled to hold in. "I'm still me — still the same person who has been bossing you around for the past seven years."

Hobbling over to the window, he turned away from her and stared at the harsh winter rain that pounded against the pavement outside. A pang resonated through her chest when she realised that he refused to so much as glance at her reflection in the glass.

"Were you responsible for this as well?" he asked, pointing to his bad leg.

"I don't know. I'm not sure if you were limping in the original version of the future. I was too focused on who was alive and who was dead by that point. It's quite possible that it was my fault, yes."

Bill groaned. "I can't take this, Hermione. I need...hell, I don't know what I need. Some space to think, I guess. I'll see you at work after the New Year."

Without waiting for the reply she didn't have, he stormed out of her house, charts still in hand.

-oOo-

Aimless walking had always helped Hermione to quiet her mind when it became too full. She let the slow rhythm of her steps dull her senses until her only thoughts were _one-two-one-two-one-two_. When she finally looked up and found that her feet had led her to the little cottage across the river, she wasn't surprised. It was, after all, where she spent most of her waking hours. Even though it felt strange to knock where she was so used to barging in, she rapped her knuckles against the familiar green door.

"Hermione?" Remus said, frowning at her rain-soaked appearance. "What's the matter?"

As he led her inside and got her situated in front of the fire with a blanket and a steaming mug of tea, Hermione spilled the whole story — everything from the arrival of Snape's gift to what had transpired in her living room less than an hour before. Remus remained quiet throughout the whole long-winded affair, only offering a slight nod now and then to show that he was paying attention.

"Merlin," he breathed once she'd finished. "That explains so much. I have always wondered why I've felt such a strong compulsion to protect you and help you since the Battle of Hogwarts. I assumed it was just due to affection—" pausing, he rested a hand on her shoulder, "—and I _am_ fond of you, don't get me wrong. You've become...not like a daughter to me, exactly. More like a younger sister, I suppose."

She offered him a tremulous smile. "Really?"

"Really." He sounded certain and gentle — the polar opposite of the unhinged, hateful man she'd once seen in Snape's Horcrux. "But this intense need to look after you must have been due to my Life Debt, at least in part." A humourless gust of laughter escaped him. "During your first three years here, I spent far more time than I should have worrying about hurting you during the full moon — almost as much as I worried about hurting Teddy. It wasn't until Bill joined us and took over a few of your overnight duties that I started to relax. Not that I wouldn't have been devastated if something went wrong with my potion and I broke out of the cellar and attacked Bill, mind you, but it didn't occupy my thoughts to nearly the same extent."

Leaning forward, he placed a whiskery kiss in the centre of her forehead.

"I'm not going to lecture you about how dangerous your actions were," he murmured. "It's as foolhardy to play around with the future as it is to meddle with the past, but I think you've already learnt that lesson, so I'll just say thank you. Thanks for saving my life — for giving Teddy and me the chance to know each other. And...thank you for trying to save Dora."

"You're welcome," she whispered, drumming her fingernails against the side of her mug. "I think...if I was given the chance to roll those dice again, I'd always try to save Tonks and hope for a better outcome. I would have done the same thing for Fleur if their situations had been reversed and she was the one with only an 11% chance of surviving — I know I would have."

Remus raised his eyebrows. "Then maybe it's high time you started to forgive yourself. Dangerous as it may have been, you did a lot of good with that box as well." His mouth twisted into a rueful frown. "Preventing me from coming along on your Horcrux hunt, for instance."

Visions of Remus sneering insults at her before morphing into a wolf and springing to attack swam through Hermione's head. The words he'd never truly uttered came back to her, as vivid and hurtful as the day she heard them in that haunting version of one potential future.

_"Snape and I have disagreed about a great many things throughout the years, but I'm beginning to think he was right about you all along. _Brightest witch of your age_...I must have been mad. You really _are_ just an insufferable little know-it-all, aren't you?"_

Shuddering, she pulled the blanket tighter around her body.

"Remus?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you ever think I was an insufferable know-it-all?"

He let out a quiet, raspy chuckle. "A know-it-all, perhaps," he said, scratching his chin. "From time to time, anyway. We all have our flaws, Hermione. But insufferable?" He gave a firm shake of his head. "Never."

-oOo-

"Damn. You look like hell."

"Thanks," Hermione muttered, chucking a pillow in the direction of Ron's head. "Don't you ever knock?"

"Ah, but if I'd knocked, I would have missed out on _this_," he said, kicking his foot through the mound of crumpled tissues next to her bed. "And wouldn't that be a shame?" Flopping down next to her, he wrapped a lanky arm around her shoulders. "Have you got all of the tears out of your system?"

"Just about, I think."

"Good. Bill came over earlier."

"Oh."

"Yeah. _Oh_." Tracing a finger over the cheerful yellow flowers on her duvet cover, he grimaced. "I found him sitting on the cliff — you know, like he used to do just after the war? He told me everything."

"Again, I say _oh_."

"It was a damn good thing Gabi and the baby were off shopping with Lavender—"

"Wait, what? Gabrielle was with Lavender?"

"Oh, God, yes. Didn't I tell you that they're friends now? They met at some antenatal class. Bloody terrifying, if you ask me. Wives shouldn't be allowed to befriend ex-girlfriends. It's against the natural order of things. Anyway, like I said, it's a good thing they were gone, because Bill needed to vent. _Loudly_."

Cringing, Hermione motioned for him to continue. Better to get it over with quickly, to rip off the plaster before she had time to anticipate how much it would sting.

"I'm not going to tell Gabrielle what you did, and neither is Bill," Ron said in a quiet, sad voice. "She told me a bit about what things were like for her after Fleur died, and I don't want to do anything that might make her relive that." Hesitating, he caught his lower lip between his teeth and made a pensive hum. "That box thingy or whatever from Snape...you used it to look at our future, didn't you? You and me together, I mean."

"Yeah, I did."

"It's why you refused to start anything with me."

It wasn't a question, but Hermione nodded anyway.

"I meant it when I said we'd be a disaster," she said. "I saw that you would be happier this way, so...here we are."

To her surprise, Ron enveloped her in a warm hug.

"Thanks for letting me go," he said. "Though, really, you could have at least had the kindness to shag me before you broke my heart—"

"_Ron!_"

"Kidding, kidding. Mostly." With an unrepentant grin, he bounded to his feet and tousled her already messy hair. "Bill will come around, I think. He went from shouting about you keeping this from him to moping about not spending Thursday with you within the space of an hour — the big girl. Just give him some more time. Oh, and by the way, Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"You owe me twenty Galleons for cheating on that bet, you little sneak."

-oOo-

Splashing cool, calming water over her face, Hermione rinsed the tear tracks from her cheeks.

She'd had enough.

Crying about Bill wasn't going to make him forgive her and magically appear on her doorstep, and wallowing never accomplished anything. She'd known the risk she took in telling him the truth, but it had been the right thing to do. She could hold her head high and look herself in the mirror, even if her reflection _did_ say snarky things about the bags under her eyes and the rumpled state of her clothes.

Remus was right. It was well past time to forgive herself.

In a flurry of bin bags and orange scented furniture polish, she tidied her home the Muggle way, taking comfort in the simple tasks of scrubbing and dusting. Only when everything was gleaming did she allow herself to collapse onto the freshly vacuumed sofa. She had no sooner sat down than three rapid knocks sounded against the front door.

Bill didn't give her a chance to say anything. He burst in as soon as the door swung open, holding up a yellowed piece of parchment that bore Fred's name.

"You really should have led with this bit," he said. "You didn't tell me that you saved my brother's life."

"You already knew that I blasted Fred away from that wall."

"Yes, but I didn't know just how close he came to death. And before that, you let yourself be Crucio'd into unconsciousness because the alternatives all led to harm coming to Ron or Harry. And this—" he pulled out a crumpled paper littered with numbers that related to Charlie, "—you saved Charlie from permanently damaging his leg. If he knew what you did for him, I'd probably have to compete with him for your affection. It would have killed him if he was forced to quit being a dragon keeper."

Hermione choked out a strained imitation of a laugh. "Perhaps you'd better not tell him, then. I get the feeling that he and Desmond are sort of a package deal, and I don't know if I could handle that much excitement on a daily basis."

His lips twitched with something that might have been the beginnings of a smile. "Few could."

An uneasy sort of silence fell over them, interrupted only by their muted breaths. Taking a chance, Hermione inched closer to Bill and rested a tentative hand on his forearm.

"I know I said it already," she whispered, "but I'm so sorry — about Fleur, about your leg...everything. If I could bring her back, I would — even knowing how I feel about you now."

"I know you would." Sighing, he placed his hand on top of hers and twined their fingers together. "The choice you made...Fleur would have told you to do it, had she known. She wouldn't have hesitated. If it meant the possibility of saving Tonks's life, she would've gladly taken the risk." His eyes fluttered closed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "I loved her more than anything, but..._I_ would have told you to do it. I can't really fault you for making the same choices I would have made, can I?"

A thread of cautious hope wove its way through Hermione's turbulent emotions. Standing on her tiptoes, she dusted a soft kiss over the jagged scars that cut across his cheek.

"I don't expect anything from you, Bill," she said. "I'd like for us to at least be friends, but I'll understand if you don't want that."

He exhaled something between a scoff and a laugh. "I wish it was that simple." His fingers loosened their hold on hers, trailing up her arm to the nape of her neck. "I almost wish I could hate you. I'm still angry that you didn't tell me sooner, but Merlin help me, that hasn't made me stop wanting to kiss you."

Relief crashed over her, manifesting itself in a wide smile. Bending at the waist, Bill skimmed his nose along her cheek. With a whisper-soft touch, he traced work-roughened fingers along her spine and brought his hands to rest on her waist.

"So kiss me," she whispered, pressing her body closer to his.

After a moment's hesitation, he did. His mouth felt heated against hers, the claw mark that sliced through his upper lip somehow warmer than the rest. It was gentler than their first kiss — shaky and searching. Hermione's fingers gripped his shoulders, holding on as if she feared he'd try to run away. Gradually, Bill slowed the kiss, allowing it to trail off into a series of light pecks.

"So," he said, giving her the most genuine smile she'd seen from him since he arrived. "Just where the hell do we go from here? Any thoughts?"

Her heart felt lighter the instant his ordinary grin appeared on his face — like that simple quirk of his lips was the first step towards something glittering and deep and wonderful.

Hermione laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners and her head falling back as the joyful sound echoed off of the walls.

"I have absolutely _no_ idea what happens next," she said.

She didn't know where they were headed, nor did she want to. Maybe they would burn out within a week and only remain civil to one another when they were in the presence of their goddaughter. Maybe they would discover that they were better off as friends. Maybe they would fight every day and reconcile every night. Maybe they would never escape the shadow of the past that loomed over them. Maybe they would get married and become one of those couples who almost never spoke due to their mutual, bitter resentment.

Maybe he wouldn't be able to forgive her role in his late wife's death.

Tilting her head up, Hermione kissed Bill's smiling mouth until he made that noise in the back of his throat she liked so very much. She felt her own lips turn up at the corners, grinning into the kiss.

Maybe — just _maybe_ — they would be happy.

_The End_

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:**__ Since I posted the first chapter of this early due to Callinectes breaking her foot, it seems only appropriate that I post the last chapter a bit early to celebrate her being able to walk again! Happy very belated birthday, m'dear! You're awesome, and I still can't believe that you beta'd half of your own birthday fic. :P Thanks. _

_And thank you to everyone else who has read this story as well. I've loved reading all of your comments. :)_


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